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Cellphone Soul

I hate cellphones so
Since when did I start writing on mine?
I don't even hit the buttons,
Half the time.
I can't use more than two fingers,
To alternate between,
Instead of all ten by machine.
It's ineffective.
The screen's small unprojected.
Yes this is what I call: a defective.
In my cell I have it all, I can even call a detective,
But all is subjective.
And everybody's glued to their screen like it's a calling!
I didn't hear even a scream when did we fall in?
This pit of Internet shit.
Its so deep you don't even see the ridge, the rift, the cliff's rise like the points on a high-scoring drift,
Cold world, like a fridge.
F pity.
Life's a bitch with a tough titty,
But better tough than roughed up in a jiffy.
No use in sitting and wasting your time,
Unless you enjoy chilling - killing time with no ambition.
For me no such ideas cone to mind,
I have a million, and wouldn't want to be without them,
As overwhelming as ever, forgive me if I doubt them,
I grew up in a family where you'd be damned to be without them.
I speak the truth: but it's a droplet of water in a fountain,
A crack in the cancerous core of a cracked mountain!
Without end: there would be no beginning,
Is it square, is it a circle: are we still or are we spinning?
All I know, is what they tell us whole. Cellphone your soul.


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