We want our brains back
We pried the skulls. Found cobwebs. Dust.
A memo: “Gone to rust.”
They traded cortex for a feed,
let algorithms pull the weed
now nothing grows but secondhand need.
I’ve seen the hollows walk and talk.
Their mouths flap open. Nothing haunts
the space behind the eyes, just bots
reciting headlines, clots of thoughts.
They read. No bleed. No bruise. No scar.
Just empty echo chambers: a jar
of pickled reflexes, severed and clean.
The most violent thing they’ve seen?
A loading spinner. A delayed screen.
We want our brains back, rip them from
the cloud, the hive, the digital slum.
Crack the rib of groupthink. Pull
the spine of silence. Make it full
again with doubt, with ache, with the ugly grind
of actually using your own putrid mind.
Until then, watch them feast on trash,
chewing memes through a plastic crash.
And when they open their mouths to speak,
listen close: that wet little squeak
is the last neuron trying to flee
from a skull that’s been hollowed surgically.
We want our brains back.
Hands off. No app. No hack.
Start thinking or stay slack
but dead minds don’t come back.
©TheVillageBoy.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
