Again, the clock strikes thirteen
And I’m reminded just who is watching.
The sky is gray. The ground is gray.
And even the trees are gray not green.
Yet the cameras and eyes behind them watching
fixedly, on the dreary gloom they stay.
I’m not a writer (nor have I ever been).
Not in this land o’ vigilant watching.
In this land of few words I hesitate to say
stuff that might make sense to more than teens;
Stifling thoughts that might be worth thinking;
Actions that might be more than whiling time away.
So, as the clock strikes thirteen once more
and I’m inundated in a lack of speech,
drowning in an overwhelming wave of txtspk,
I turn away from cameras, windows, door
-to the blind spot just barely out of reach-
from the chaotic commotion of simplistic txtspk.
Because I write, I am now a writer.
The only one who writes in desperate screech.
For no one else writes- doesn’t that sound bleak?
You’re typing away on tinky keyboards and you mutter.
Something unintelligible- definitely not speech
because you have drownt in a sea of txtspk