How needing of compassion are we Who eavesdrop so obsessively Listening in on sick men mumbling secrets to themselves in empty rooms And what audacity What childish sort of pride To drop their heartache at their feet And cast their candidness aside And looking not into their eyes But through the vast network of screens We scream: 'These strange new words of yours No longer suit our needs' As if we were the ones they sought to please (The cure is your own words If it doesn't burn its not working)