and it’s nothing but noise.
Several billion by now
hands typing, tapping
the errant thoughts
the endless opinions
the word invented
six thousand years ago
along trading routes,
in temples,
beneath the tired frenzied eyes
that felt strange being human
and searched for what to say.

And now the word is everywhere,
in brief percussive shouts.
Shouts of subtle wisdom
Shouts of shared untruth
Shouts adored by the masses
Shouts of isolation in the crowd.
Competing endless chatter
invisible hands lift the loud ones to the top
those who shout the loudest
might be elected king someday.

Typing up for money
typing because you’re broke
typing from the experts
typing from the insane
typing from the faithful
and the hopeless seeking fame.
At night I type when I can’t sleep
and when I’m awake I type to push my dreams away.