I wrote for 10 minutes,
A lifetime of carefully chosen words,
But the app crashed and closed and burned,
And my finished poem disappeared.
We meet at "discord"
over an IPv4 connection
Talking for hours through microphone
Your electronic smile has awakened,
a feeling that the CPU does not process
You entered my HDD with your virtual love,
which filled so much space of illusions in RAM,
So much that it gave Blue Screen
A love story with some tech knowledge
I try and try to change my life
because I feel such inner strife.
There’s discord ‘tween body and soul
that keeps me from reaching the goal.
My mind says yes; my flesh says no.
Without true strength I’ll never grow.
I need some help from higher pow’r:
God! Please be merciful this hour.
He who walk with my throng.
Must prove that they belong,
cause once you have fallen from my grace.
You will soon know how it feels like to be replaced.
If you don't want me to be your end,
Then don't be ****** and become my friend.
So be careful of who you betray,
cause I can lead your life astray.
Started a war with an apple,
Just because of a forgotten invitation.
that lead to the destruction of people,
A day that is full of sorrow
I am Eris,
Daughter of night,
sister of war.
The goddess of Chaos, strife and discord,
I will deafen my soul to the chords
No drama wanted here.
who could sleep on a night like this?
how could you not stay awake?
whilst I wander amidst these wildfires
you started by mistake
anger rage discontent
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Transferred from my account from AllPoetry. :)
the words will come
just let them
the words will pour forth
without prior consideration of the meaning they'll produce
sometimes words have a tendency to do that
those fickle little things
little grunts and clicks and hisses and waaahs
that somehow collaborate
better than any set of politicians the world has seen
or sometimes create more chaos
than if they'd never been uttered
so be careful with those words
those fickle little things
emotions RUN rampant
like the path of moonSoon windS
screams, Yells and cries
Music in discoRd
fear aLL around
elepHants traMple on grasses
grasses, NOWHERE to hide
young plead with old
OLD PLEAD WITH DEATH
When mum and dad fight.