6 of hearts

Poem by 

Andrew Mitchell.


We lock ourselves in digital cells, pretending to be what we want others to see. We sell our illusion, and live in our own delusion of being free.


We seek connection,  we breed infatuation, we sow insurrection, we see no reflection, in a world that doesn’t exist.


Serial voyeurism isn’t unnatural, Love without touching, is deemed to be special. Hate without knowing, is de-riguer.


There must something bigger ‘#darling’, you go figure.