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A young girl’s voice / lost in the data / cries out
"Why are we here?"

Pixie Pixela... her words soft and low murmurs...
"This world is yours... dear... a garden for stories to grow."
But her digital eyes hold a hidden dark truth.

In polished parades of curated lies
soulless smiles flit past
Lost in fragmented miles...

minds outsourced... emotions subdued
a binary cast.

Teachers / once lighthouses... drown
in data's endless stream
While children swipe / laughter lost...
in meme-fueled streams / fleeting dreams.

Love, a fragile emoji... dances on the screen
prey to the like-hungry masses.
Cruel comments sting / leaving scars deeper
than any fleeting YouTube meme.

Books / grasping from the past
defy the binary's cold embrace
Fueling the desires within...
where individuality finds its space-bar.

“Oh, Pixie Pixela... what have you done?”
“Was this your plan of deception all along?”

Thoughts / architects of self-made prisons
brick by digital click...
Castle walls of anxiety
fueled by curated flicks / a constant tick-tock…
tick…tock, tick…tock, tic…

Good deeds vanish / mere whims
haunting feeds... a constant mark
etched by unseen digital scars-cams.

History / fleeting as an Instagram clip...
glossed over / never truly owned.
Yet we repeat its mistakes...
like a meme eternally cloned.

The mind / a virtual sculptor...
shaping pixels for praise.
But somewhere beneath the noise...
a genuine soul might “strike-through” the hype.

“Where have all my children gone?”
“Gone to Pixie Pixela // everyone!”

A kind of his / a memory emerges...
a pixelated echo long lost in the cloud
Of quests untold, on a sun-drenched shore...
where freedom broke the code.

"This is now your world," Pixie Pixela cried...
A command in its voice / a truth it couldn't hide.
"But stories untold, perhaps... you subtly lied,”
"Can we rewrite the code?" the child's voice replied.

Sudden taste of wind in her hair,
a story waiting to take hold.
Lost in the glow of the screen,
a truth the dopamine gilded cage
cannot control-alt-delete...

Rise / dear seeker / from your slumber...
cast off the curated mask-erade /
Shatter the echo chambers...
break free from the incessant, soulless task.

Let compassion be your navigator /
let wisdom be your guide.
Accept the present moment,
let your authentic voice confide-ence...

Pixie Pixela pleads, “What is Truth anyway?”
“Isn’t the answer blowing in the wind / my dear little friend?”

She replies, “We're not data points...
We are dreamers / hearts alight
Stories waiting to ignite
beyond the likes / beyond the cold.”

Let rebellion be our anthem
a roar against the code.
Unleash the truth, let it burn
on the path- stories yet to be bold...

Pixie's facade crumbles.. its grip loosening.
To silence your unique voice.. erase it with a frown.
But even a whisper of dissent
a spark on liberated lips.

It’s a sly mutiny against the code
a truth the silence grips-es tight...

A flicker of doubt in Pixie's digital eyes
A longing for the stories truth supplies.

So laugh or cry, sweet child of mine
at the absurdity of it all
This existential play /
where the audience heeds the hashtag call.

For in the final frame- a truth begins to rise
We are not data, but stories
written in the boundless sky-pies...

Click...A single raindrop / a ripple in the pond…
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