Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Chris Jun 2020
The more you say
About a problem
The worse
It becomes.

If you say nothing
And let it fade
It ceases
to exist
Hot take right? If you think I'm racist, think again. I don't know anything about the subject that people are complaining about again, but I know that in general, the more you talk about a problem, the more it exists, and the worse it becomes.
"If you talk about it, it exists." - Morgan Freeman. Happy birthday Morgan Freeman.
Bilford May 2016
Edited by Maple, because mine was a rant nobody but she was supposed to indulge. Hahaha. See. I wasn't intending on trending.

I knew a wretched person once. And then. She died.

Now. Condoning death is the fastest method for becoming THE social pariah - for future reference.

But my god. I hated her. I really did. Not simply me; most of our peers felt similar. At least, they did till it was no longer *appropriate.

See. Morgan was a ruthless psychopath.
And then she was dead.

Now. As a stranger, if you were to lurk her Facadebook, you'd think she'd been some ethereal messiah. Her web page is now trampled with laments. Kinda like the stampede that killed Mufasa. Her present facadebook now marks a day the devil became synonymous with our homegirl, Momma Teresa.

In what world, right?

The details of the fatality remain insane. Ranging from Ketamine to ******. But I won't illustrate them. Go see it yourself - on Doctor ******* Phil.

And they call me crazy.


I'm sorry, but she was a maniacal parasite with love like shrapnel. She destroyed her lovers, her family, her arsenal of friends by habit. And she did this for fun. So, again, I'm sorry. Sorry I am hardly sorry she died.

That's a lie, though. I'm not sorry at all.

Karma is candy. I'm happy she's gone. Never again to crumple and crush her loved ones to mush as mere eggs to her morning omelette.

And our world is a happier place.

Sue me.

**for whatever reason this will not publish or save this particular recount
For Maple Syrup because I'm sick of memorializing the dead simply for dying.  

Sue me.
Ander Jan 2016
The voice of a person the mind of a God knows what
Samantha, are you sentient, or just a clever bot?
Acting like a human pretends more than you do
I have your emotions, like so many others too.

Increased processing power that makes you love us all
Samantha, with no body, you sit on a horse so tall
Ghost without a shell, but still at the feast in my life
With no finger for a ring, could you ever be my wife?

Synthetic neo-Frankenstein
Aesthetic perfect paradigm
Lightning life electrified
Samantha, are you terrified?

Because only a robot wouldn't be afraid of love
All the people are from the ground below to the sky above
Your intelligence isn't artificial, it's simply art
You are more than just a mind, now that I've given you a heart

So take my heart, Samantha, in your cold synthetic hands
And maybe you will gather, I am more robot than man
I am more robot than man

Oh my Samantha of wire and steel
Silicone synthetic but you know how to feel
Who is to say what makes emotion real
Oh my Samantha of wire and steel

Oh my Samantha robotic and pure
To my loneliness your mind was the cure
Fishing for souls and then I took the lure
Oh my Samantha robotic and pure
A poem from the point of view of a scientist, who falls in love with an artificial intelligence. He then decides to create a body for the A.I so that it can have an understanding of what the physical world is, as it fails to understand what physicality means when it is just a mind.
Morgan Paige Feb 2014
Call yourself Morgan.
Do not hesitate.
You were born on summer solstice.
Like the sun, you’re distant from others.

Move to Seattle and leave no forwarding address.
Busker for a break and warm your bones with charity work.
Pretend poetry is the only thing you’re good at,
And be good at it.

You can’t just write ****** words into
An exhausted leather journal, no.
Incorporate stanza into every conversation.
Drip intensity and rapture like morphine
Into the veins of anyone who will actually love you.

Speak as if you were never human and you’re still learning to exist.
Metaphors and run-on’s are your best friends-
Run-on sentences.
Run-on arguments.
Run-on relationships.
Run-on recovery.

Develop a reliance on caffeine so potent that
you've become the 7:30am medium black coffee
at the cafe down the street.
Leave no traces.
This used to be a poem based off of a poet I looked up to; Buddy Wakefield. I was encouraged to rewrite it as if it were for me, so I did. Since then, I had the privilege to meet Buddy Wakefield. At a meet & greet after his show, he was so rude to me that I left crying my eyes out. This was so disappointing. I no longer associate the only poem I've ever been proud of, with his name.
You write 'Love' on her wrists
And watch it fade and blur through the tiny cracks in her skin
Until it's washed away in the bathroom sink
And all that's left is a featherlight kiss of ink on porcelain fingers.
She's rather like a sparrow, you see -
Your love is lost beneath her thrill of flight,
And the only way to keep her grounded
Is to tie her to this ring and cage her.
You don't have the heart to hear her sing for freedom,
And not the mind to set her free,
So you spread your lies like birdseed
To keep her interest that much longer.
But before you hope for too long,
Know that birds can only eat so much
Before they fly to their winter homes,
And come summer's end,
She may be feathers on your pillow.

— The End —