Most days

instead of the phone, i choose this
instead of the email, i choose this
instead of human being, i am this
and this is all there is

and i start writing never to send
and i quit writing never to mend
the past of broken thens defends
the present all alone picking memory scabs

i've never known,
which glitters in the eyes
as beautiful or intriguing

and now i'm caught up in the game
of speed
and life is passing me by
and i have no time to stop
and look around

and it's killing me

the machine is chewing me up
and will no doubt
spit me out
soon enough