The Lost Art of Conversation

Damnit, did we have to?
Did we have to make conversation so hard?
With life so empty already,
how can these cold new rules leave us any warmth.
Our words are deep piercings shot from a staple gun.
Flat as a bad line while sticking pins on flesh.
How should I feel no pain
while your words are plain images,
playing in repetition all day and longer as a rendition of our friendship.
It’s a signature from our glorious age, without heart and not worthy of the energy.
If all your texts leave me churning,
asking questions with no mission for your bad scripting,
When your questions scream “entertain me”
and shriek “I’m Boring” for my hearing while beating about tacky honourifics,
“hey, how’s your family?” won’t change that we’re friends of convenience,
and “I miss you” will remind me you only text when you need me.
There’s no end to all the misery.
They’re the same and not hard to say
They’re empty all the same.
Mindless instrumentals without any warming sound.