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it's auto
The Brink (h-town), texas    uncouth youth living in houston www.derridas.tumblr.com
autoenyo

Poems

Wyatt  Nov 2018
Auto.
Wyatt Nov 2018
I’m starting to
lose the feeling,
I miss the times that
I took for granted.
I’ve dug a grave too
deep to escape.
It’s all like a dream, yet
I’m still wide awake.
I’m going on auto
because I’m unstable,
losing my balance.
I always hide the lie, but
I think someone found it
so I’m going on auto
until they forget about it.
There’s no good in my secret,
don’t search for the pilot.
You searched for a king
and all you got was Wyatt.

This false light I got is
starting to flicker.
Every promising life goes
out in a whimper.
I miss when things were simpler,
but were they ever simpler?
I’m never the winner,
so I need a mentor.
Stuck talking like this,
stuck living like this.
The people who know me
don’t know who this is.
I’m stuck acting like this,
hurting myself like this.
The people who know me can’t
pull me out of this.
I'm going on auto.

Everything is
looking in at me.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
Everybody is
singing in harmony and
I’m still singing
out of key, out of key.

I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.

I wrote this part
when I was in the
darkest days of my life.
This is it right now,
this is the height.
I always speak in past-tense
like I’ve lived any kind of life
worth repeating all the time.
I’ve only repeated a lie.
Everyone and everything
has felt alien to me, but now
I’m realizing that in reality I’m
the one who’s been left out.
Every lie has a little truth in it,
the pain in my smile has always
been on my face by default.
When you can’t be
happy manually
you throw your life
on an auto-pilot,
and hopelessly hope
someday you will like it.
Sweeping up debris from
another catastrophe,
add another pretty line to
an awful masterpiece.
A shoulder to cry on
has never came to me
because I’ve cried enough
and now I’m completely empty
so all that’s left to do
is shrug and live with it.
I’m going on auto.
Risa Njoroge Aug 2019
Am sorry that’s not what I meant,
It’s just the auto-correct,
This new technology thinks it’s ahead,
Replacing the words that come from my head,
with words like "You are my best yet"
When what I meant to say was "meeting you I regret"

And that last text I sent, telling you how I felt,
That too was auto-correct,
See, there was a time when your words made my heart melt,
And the butterflies that rose from my belly up to my neck,
I sometimes needed  to tie them down with a belt,
All this words you say you never meant.

Every time you sent that I love you text,
Now I know it just auto-correct
This new tech is quick to make us forget,
And replaces words like I regret,
With stupid texts like “come hold me”
Leaving us with broken hearts we now hold up like trophies,

The rest of the world may never know just how much I hurt,
Because I found a filter that will auto-correct
This frown on my face and turn it right side up,
And every time I take a picture,
This auto correct will add color and remove the hurt,
Making sure no one will never know what really lives inside,
"this whirl we call home, spinning out of control.”
we have been living in an auto-correct world, never saying what is on our minds, and everything is spinning out of control.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
unbelievable, i suddenly became entwined in a cultural project of argument, and had an opinion... what could suddenly come next?! i start biting my nails, and farting into a cushion, and think about ageing, seriously, buy seriously i mean: buying a car, a change of clothes worth a month, and forget cooking my own food, eating out on the town every night... yeah... growing up... looking serious... looking primmed for the worth of life: wholly political....... sign me up!

when i hear talk of the *superego

and the id
i don't think of anything to say,
i feel they are akin to the necessary
constructs of the world around us,
e.g. (foremostly) the self-employed...
the same with the "hierarchy"
of these supposed psychology unionists...
these so-called fractions...
  what kills fictional exploits?
i.e. writing books?
well, the premise that the superego
and the id are feline, cosy,
cushioned in their reclusive naturalisation
of our demand for dialectics or argument....
these constructs are merely
automata... they are fractions
of the automaton...
       they are auto-
       concise and precise enough
to stress an ego...
    and god... didn't we **** off the Romans
to a point, that still engrosses itself
in keeping the last remnant,
the Vatican care to call a colleseum a church
and the two akin in being eternal?
you seen the anglican congregation lately?
  it's hardly worth a comment akin
to a football pitch.
        it's enforced narrative...
all the cases for superego's or id's existence...
       both best summarised by the prefix auto-...
or: lacking the ability to imitate Dumas...
   you don't actually get far with both / either
of them...
    this automaton schism of what the ego
can actually propose is gone...
                it's a new age schism, after all...
but unlike the ego, which you can actually
control, or cage within a pentagon of the sensual
barricade... thankfully the ego is too
prone to evaporation... too trickly,
             too out of reach...
hence the need to recount a counter
trinity of the religious tradition,
with a superego and the id....
               just enough fakes to **** of narration
altogether...
   superego and id are of the same strand,
i.e. auto-,
   meaning they are the foodstuffs of narration...
just about the same time
a plumber fixes a toilet,
an intellectual (also paid) will talk of
the superego...
         to me the said intellectual is nothing more
than an automaton...
                   because i think the dissection
of the individual is nothing but fake,
contrary to atheism and theism:
truly of man design...
       i see it as nothing but a quick
escape,
  both superego and id are made into auto-,
i.e. for the easy narrative...
for they are just that...
          maybe my argument comes from the fact
that i have no narrative to give unto
these two entities...
but thankfully god...
                 and how i can see
ego, superego and id in a Christian dogma...
but please tell me where schizophrenic
symptoms originate, in which unit,
please?!
          oh wait... you can't!
it's easier treating everything with a crucifix!
and stigma!
          happy days... ah...
i'm starting to think of pooh bear
and have a need to cry...
         but as i already said,
writing novels is about nearly dead...
  given the dictators of superego and id...
meaning that the only non-automaton
fraction of a human psyche is the ego,
that false sense of identity, of the nearest
testing ground for mortality...
      when i hear intellectuals really get to grips
and make grit with the fractions superego
and id i start to summarise them with
auto-, a prefix denoting that they're robots...
    and if this could only be the crowning achievement
of a modern-day heartfelt scene of alienation...
nope... i'd rather be a fishmonger
  at Billingsgate at 3a.m.
              i like these Freudian fixations,
they express the fact that i can't write novels...
and i can spot auto- narratives derived from them...
       just like i can spot priests and
devotees climbing hills on their knees...
   as ever, to give the ego stability...
    to give it everything that death apparently
"robs it of"...
                it wasn't enough to give the ego
   a pronoun reversal and a free-reign on using
i with all that much, unnecessary theory...
      it wasn't even for a theory base
on the care for: keeping the tick-tock ticking....
       i can only suggest that we're mutilated
beyond hope,
          and that the only hope we have is that
heaven is riddled with all things bureaucratic...
    and that hell is merely guided by:
take to things as they are, not worth being
taken to by two.
              the Koranic nadir-principality of forlorn
statistics comes only ever so often,
and when it weakens, the arguments begin -
alias: how to avoid a tautological argument...
    that's me, thinking i invented
a refrigerator.
  that's really tautology...
    i mean what's happening now...
   with a sudden stench akin to foot-stuffs
from a supermarket with a u.b.d. and b.b.d.,
akin to the Koran... having sentenced one
of the either acronyms to current affairs...
       still...
i hear the arguments to keep the Freudian
architecture, and i can only think of one
human and two robots in the construct.