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a world of man vs a,
world of machine
an ocean of man vs an,
ocean of machine
machine vs an ocean of machine
machine vs an ocean of man
an ocean vs an ocean

man verses man
machine verses machine
an ocean of destruction vs an
ocean of destruction
kindness is kindness of destruction
kindness is kindness of humankindness
humankindness is a ocean of humankindness

humankindness is a ocean of destruction
verses is verses machine
verses is verses man
verses is verses kindness
verses is verses destruction
man vs machine
kindness vs humankindness
my writing is called philosophical writing. i only uses middle ages words,words from the renaissance for instance words liked gracious,extravaganza,etc... this poem is about kindness is humankindness of man or machine. i don’t add capitalization’s on my writing.
Spicy Digits Apr 2021
I've sang for you
Danced for you
Bled for you
Bowed and curtsied
Dogged and *****
I've fought for you
I've won countless times
Ribbons and plaques
Handshakes in the dark

The game continues to play now
in my head
for you
man or machine is,
a world of science
man or machine is,
a world of madness
a machine is a mechanic science
a machine is a mechanic madness
mechanic is mechanic of a man or machine

science is a mechanic of man or machine
science is a mechanic of science
vision is visioning man
vision is visioning a machine
vision is visioning a mechanic world
a vision is a mechanic world
a vision is a mechanic science

man or machine,science is a vision of a man
a galaxy is a vision of a galaxy
a galaxy is a vision of man or machine
a galaxy is a vision of a mechanic world
science is a galaxy of a mechanic world
science is a mechanic world man or machine
science is a mechanic world science
my writing is called philosophical writing. i only uses middle ages words,words from the renaissance for instance words liked gracious,extravaganza,etc... the meaning of the word “mechanic “ is for instance math is a mechanic and problem. this poem is about a mechanic world is a mechanic science. i don’t add capitalization’s on my writing.
Mark Wanless Apr 2021
dead lizard on the
tumultuous road i croak
under the machine
Summer Apr 2021
I

I was told that faces persist, could wear away pebble, wind, and sand. Rivers, long and winding, and the rain, always so strange, mingle with rippling ashes of our ancestors, their fingers dipping through charcoal powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space, faded faces on walls. We are not a dream, they were saying. Not flashes of an aged old dream. Sand-like memory, look for us.
A dream i had this morning
Out of deep sorrow for the loss of my muse
The machine stops to recapture its stasis
Stolen by the unrequited idea of this mirage,
The scarlet tic toc craves pristine amuse

The pump of the sweet amorous concoction
Tastes **** to the disused forlorn tongue
Maybe the machine leeks this viscous fluid
To purchase desire at the body’s auction

This nature’s request for the suitable mate
While the soul of the failure still remains,
Cranks the contraption most vital gears
As a mismatched tic toc at hearts gate

The betrayal of knowing the truth and never
Ever leaving the past wholly shatters me
The Sunlover wants to bloom when the light
Shines darker than the doubt of forever

That is the heart’s betrayal

Viewing the sunrise through my wasted eyes
unfold as the tears of my broken dreams,
I remember the beauty of my dear beloved
The ultimate ambush to my lonely skies

The hangover of rejection lingers for eternity.
The addictive touch of tenderness I want
While the robot engines cannot cope with it,
The tired heart goes for failed shot infinity

What is this web which I was woven into?
Falling for eight, then nine, bonus ten
Tic toc the clock; pump, pumped the blood
Wild need, whispers required to ensue

And whilst I dig the grave where I shall lend
Haunting me is the ever burning question
Will ever the craving for love be truly done?
Hope is said to never falter, to never end

That is the heart’s betrayal

The never ending brush of desire swirls
A portrait of novel passion; her soft
Features, angelic voice, immaculate lips
And this issue prevails with all the girls

In the mind’s museum, they become a bust
Of hard intangible romantic interests
And as a collection vice, the gallery will not
Stop letting in more miscellany of lust

Appreciating the astral beauty, bemusing  
In the details, worshipping personality,
Requiring such unity to expel the loneliness
This hearts motives forever bruising

The interest in a woman thus take shape
To form the most ethereal phantom
A ghost that results in dreams of icy mist
A myth of warmth, fleeting escape

That is the heart’s betrayal

Once betrothed to be my suitable mate,
Wishes my dream fairy granted me
Far and wide we would venture, brave souls
Only in my fantasy, this surreal bate

Thus, the later ultimatum comes unexpected
When company the moment yearns
This muse’s portrait matures into sorrow
We were genuinely never connected

The cold from this epiphany ardently churns
The blood that petrifies the machine
“She is not the right one,” an echo of misery
Even if elusive, she hurts me; it burns

Passion may come and go, a scar of flare
A tempest of feelings of the unruly kind
The spark is a mystery to solve, misguided
The hurt of a hollow kinship and despair

One day the soul its mate will find, the heart
Will have a home to call in the light
But now the frozen pump in darkness lingers
Waiting the mistake of love to depart

It all goes back to the beginning

And that is the heart’s betrayal
The last poem of my original anthology had to be its namesake. My nature was to love, get rejected, love, lose that person, love again, be rejected, and on and on in an uncontrollable and destructive cycle. It had to stop, so I had to finally understand what was happening to me and translate those impetuses into words. To do so was to acknowledge all the pain and distress of loss and rejection, and for a long time, I just could not do it. Poetry helped me open up and learn about myself. So, this was actually one of the first poems I ever wrote. The sense of cyclicity that flows through and ends the poem makes rereading the whole collection a new experience. All the pieces inside of it have something to do with how the heart, in all its emotional saliences, controls people's every thought, even when we think we are in control. We can love, hate, fear, yearn, and at the same time, not want it to happen. Nonetheless, the heart will betrayal our countenance, our adamancy, our will to resist within different degrees. So, to feature all these ideas sprinkled throughout the anthology into one poem was the best way to end it.
Man Dec 2020
dearest
at our embrace
the world's spin ceases
the carousel careens to a standstill
as sound to snow
sandy shores to an ocean's flow
we are the gears, grinding to a halt
in spite of the machine
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