The Interface

a vast junkyard of wasted humans, 
forgotten geniuses eaten away 
by their own genius, 
derelict hosts once so nuanced  
prescribed an ‘overdose’
I’m living a counterfeit life
all seems real to an untrained eye,
it’s the era of the ‘death of self’
familiar imagery, thousands 
having mastered mimicry
I haven’t heard one true voice

since we’ve wired ourselves 
into the interface
we’re forced to participate,
the mob can’t wait to retaliate 
to opposing views that challenge
their delusion, I feel the confusion,
it all seems such a waste,
I’ve spent years trying to cut 
my connection to the interface,
it’s malpractice, a database
used to debase, a tool
to develop our predecessor
a freedom oppressor