Hands held in jail
A simple wreck of proportions
Cell phone
Holding on
Through every bend
Like a contortionist
Careful time delegation
In a room of lavish embellishments
Awaiting
Through the gliding feel of the phone
Like a fresh shave in the morning
With force it reckons you back
To embark on internets past
Although you may reject its request for
Time and energy
You can not disagree
With the phones ability
To consistently
Win you back
It is a vigilant time apparatus
Strapped around your head
Walking through the muck
Of the walking dead
It’s valuable sensation
Is an impeccable sum
In the moments surrounding
The wild humdrum
A Cup of Songwriting 