Users

From a teenage chat room dweller
living in naivety
there comes the later bottomed years,
a cold sense of reality.
When the addiction of downloading
highspeed heartbreak, drama, porn,
lusts and fascinations
from this large electric tit
suckling in their inner needs
they become worn and jaded,
fat and sluggish in the mind and heart.
Never learning.
Never weaning.
People turned commodity.
One choice on a search result.
Cutting off the real connections.
Killing off the higher functions.
Users. Of each other. Having really no relations.
Like the members of a cult.
There are a few who do escape
the escapism itself, the shit,
and sift like miners through the grit
for the tiny bits of gold.
Who block the banners, choose to think,
rather than to just be sold.
Like some kind of jungle prey
whom by many snares and predators
has been made sharp and cunning,
keen. Perusing like a wanderer
who doesn't rest until he has
a quiet place that's safe and clean.
Many times I've seen the faces,
downcast, typing, asked myself,
can anything
good or human
really come from this machine?
But of course the answer is
it has no soul it's own.
Will we let our tools be
a detraction
from ourselves? A distraction
from our lives
or addition?
An extension.
A creation, an expression
beyond the boundaries
of what we normally could reach?
Or let it cut our grasp and think for us
forfeiting in time that capacity
through atrophy?