My Generation Poem by Rilyn Johnson

Talking bout my generation
Talking? Talking died
He now lies
In a mass grave
Buried in text boxes
Comment sections
And text messages

Overwhelmed
We left spontaneity
In the nineties
With angst at her side

Glassy eyed
Stepford Wives
We follow the next
The next gadget
The next app
The next everything

The present as ever fleeting as it once was
Has now been
In our own arrogance murdered
In the icy glow of
Smart Phones
And Computer screens

We experience reality vicariously
One forty inch rectangle at a time

Freely available information
Copious amounts of knowledge
At the touch of a finger
The most relevant being
What Miley, Gaga, or some other saint
Is wearing

Nothing is tactile
There is no texture in us
We are smooth
Pointless