They are really all we have,
That's why solitary confinement's,
The worst punishment to be had,
That's why every success,
Comes not in isolation,
Even poets who die alone,
Find fans after decomposition,
That's why a tree never makes a sound,
When ears are not around,
And you're forever bummed out,
That your friends don't come around.
You're too much in your mind,
Who will never be able to see,
The desperate flailing of your arms,
As you reach for connectivity.
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