By Crash Wilmot
Talking to everyone, but no one talks back.
Hi-tech communication breakdown.
Speaking a language no one understands anymore.
The written word nothing,
but an ink stain upon the bleached paper of life.
Rhythmic Hell creeps along the streets,
in the form of Unussaultable logic.
Ripped apart from corner to corner,
as the rats mutter drunkenly to themselves.
Paranoia held in the iron fist of the fascist reality within.
The glass is really half empty,
as all home is slowly squeezed out of the fruits of labor.
Inspiration is no longer sought out,
as a source of comfort…
because the pain of thinking is too much.
Why talk to anyone, if they’ll kill you?
Big Brother IS watching.