Digital Bondage

This glass isn’t life.
It’s a tool that pretends to be a home—
a loaded thing.
Like a gun, it needs a safety.
Use it, don’t live in it.

We trusted it like a lifetime warranty,
signed away hours without reading the clause.
Now it drafts our attention,
taxes our sleep,
edits what feels real.

We reached for knowledge
and woke cuffed to the scroll—
each tap another link in the chain.
Watch how the feed trims wings
so quietly you call it comfort;
that’s how silent a cage can be.

It isn’t a savior; it’s a vice when we lean too hard.
You thought it would secure you;
it keeps you instead.
Companies don’t love us—
they mine us, loyal veins
in bright, obedient walls.
Nothing personal. Only profit.

Look what it’s doing:
replacing touch with friction,
voice with volume,
motion with a standing still—
calling it “connection”
while we forget to call each other.

Treat it like a blade—kept sheathed
until there’s something worth cutting.
Set the terms yourself.
Put the safety on.
Put it down before the pulse of you thins.
Unplug what is starving you.

It’s expensive in quiet ways—
what you don’t notice missing:
sun on your face,
a name said without delay,
your own thoughts arriving whole.

There are no guarantees here except this:
death comes.
Before it does, unplug what starves you.
Set the weapon on the table.
Step back into your life—
pockets empty, hands free,
ready for air, for voices, for faces,
for a world that answers when you knock.