the android laments

we live in little boxes, compartments in apartments, turning our keys as if we owned a mansion, proud of the holes in which we hide. blinds drawn to keep in the cheap florescence, the box pumping in propaganda and tiny jingles we sit and contemplate, drinking in time. we are but children still, my beautiful, young generation- already embittered and overtly hopeful, we know nothing of what our parents fought for. Those olden days which were once so golden, a chrysalis now discarded wayside crushed under a rocking chair and bifocals. nature is a cruel mistress, scratching her nails down our backs until we cover ourselves in shame.