broken bikes

of medias

if video killed

the radio star,

then the internet killed

your imagination

i see your hollow eyes,

empty of original thoughts,

swimming with gossip stories

of rich people getting implants,

and celebrities taking ill advantage

of their fame

i hear your emotionless words,

floating through the noise,

laden with meanings

that have been assigned to them by reality producers

i remember

when curiosity

rankled inside of you,

begging to be satisfied

like a stubborn child,

thrashing and stomping his feet,

demanding attention

you wanted to explore

you wanted to learn

you wanted to discover

you wanted to create

you were an individual

now, you are a shell,

crippled by the necessity of tangled wires,

no longer seeing the value

in raw human interaction

you stare at a screen

all day and all night,

soaking in bullshit

that someone else made up