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Too young to have an opinion
Yet not too young to know the truth
Too young to know their orientation
Yet not too young to know its not a phase
Too young to experience racism
Yet not too young to have slurs tossed at your face like casual talk

Too young to understand global warming
Yet not too young to negatively affected by pollution
Too young to understand politics
Yet not too young experience the effects of an incompetent president
Too young to dress like that
Yet not too young to be denied education because the boys are distracted by your shoulders

Too young to experience real pain
Yet not too young to be six feet under because of it
This poem was written by someone who knows what it feels like to be "too young"
You're never too young to make a difference
A change in this unvarying world might be just what it needs
This is the second poem I've ever written, so let me know if you like it.
Justin Lai Jan 3
google was my babysitter
not a very good one i'll admit

perhaps more like a cool uncle
with infinitely scrolling treats

the more i tickled his algorithm {
search queries = seo && [freewheeling whims];
}

OR ||
stray thoughts seeking foster homes
just fronts for attention farms

reaping curiosity off the vine
while overclocking the study room

being held to father's chair like a vice
if only to keep me safe in a web

spun by a child's simple thoughts
and a sentient robot babysitter
if you craft a more elegant google algorithm then dm me ;)
Wided Ben Jul 2018
Teach me the cryptography of the cosmos so that I decipher its codes, I already know that tragedies in stars have a pattern that resonates with your name. Astronomers say, the most massive stars are the shortest lived, they never mention the loudness of their begging for a softer beginning, they don’t report agony as a cause of death.
listening out for the catch, through the ordered lines
then running into familiar counter-melodies
that hit the gut like surprise meetings with old friends

pushing against the current
you write the soul’s ebb and flow of discovering
break and breakaway, meet again

figuring it out along the way, slipping back,
humble, soft vulnerability of emitting,
rolling out in music and codes interior landscapes
A poem about how it can feel to listen to Elliott Smith's music and lyrics
Middy Oct 2017
Everyone's talking in codes
In gabbled voices
In loud voices

What are they saying
When they say
A thing everyone laughs at
What do they call it?
A joke?
But...
I don't get it

Why do they waste words
On something they call banter
Code for hating, bullying
Rambling maybe
But it hurts none the less

I'm looking around
I can't understand a word
My ears are blocked
By my shaking hands

The jangling of a bracelet
The sound of music

What are these codes?
How do I speak like that?
How do I act like that?
The voices only give me
Questions and no answers
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