Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nothing Much Feb 2015
I've gotten so used to greyscale
On this faulty monitor
That I've almost forgotten what colors look like
As they dance across the screen

I have had enough of this monochromatic monotony
So I snip wires, rip out cords
Do anything I can to see if I can get the color back
The only cable I leave alone is the one connecting it to the wall

I stand there in the robotic wreckage
And see a bit of red blinking on the screen
My world is not yet in technicolor
But this is a start.
:^/
Jon Elfers Feb 2015
mouth syncing up digital brain,
electrically bounding the physical
with the ethereal analog bond
bound up and wrapped,
in fiber optic blankets,
secrets passing layer to layer
heard only by quadraphonic
receivers echoing out
into a singularity of conciseness,
confirmed by units of two
Kyle Howard Sep 2014
Humans are robots,
Robots that act like humans,
Technologically.
Technology consumes too many great minds.
my moral metabolism escapes me
trapped in decaying flesh
these combustible meanings
and disarming thoughts
it's like seeing the word in greyscale
through canine eyes
translating the future into wet dreams
and false disciplines
we move mountains but see only jewels
brainwashed societies block out sun rays
and trap beasts within walls

eat my heart
I no longer want it
make me a tin can
program me
create an automaton
I'd rather see in greyscale
it's pale I know
but it doesn't hurt
to lack feelings when they should be present
depend only on my metallic casings
become indifferent to this worlds meaningless agony
my notions and emotions
these eyes will be void of consciousness
lost in unoccupied nothingness
believe me
delete me
reformat my existence
I want to see in greyscale
EC Pollick Aug 2014
He builds robots
with his bare hands.
He takes the wrenches
and the electronics
and the nuts and bolts
and makes out of nothing
Something.

And even though I don’t even know him.
I think I may love him a bit.

I think about
How he puts things together that weren’t connected ever before.
Fixing that which is broken
Or unmade
Or seemingly unfixable.
And proving the world wrong when this man-made machine
is just as alive as the rest of us.

The discarded
are made
into something with a renewed sense of purpose.
Proving recycling as a totally viable concept
[and not just a fad hippies whine about]
Right before your very eyes.

And as I watch him explain
High level mechanics
to the English majors like me,
I think about my broken heart
and the inability to truly love anyone in the last five years of my life
And I think

Maybe
There’s someone out there
Who can finally fix that.
Seriously, Robotics are ****.
Robots Robots Robots
All I see is robots

Where are the humans?
They are long gone my friend

Everyone is controlled by "them"
Everyone is programmed the same
Everywhere I turn I see different people doing the exact same things

"We are all the same", he said
"Why do you say it proudly?", I asked
"We like it", he answered
"You are programmed that way,
programmed to think you like it." I replied

They are manipulating you, don't you see?
You are all bunch of robots and puppets

Be who you want to be
Live the life you want to live

Do you want to live the life they chose for you?
or
Do you want to live the life you chose for yourself?

Do you want to be a puppet?
or
Do you want to be free?

All you gotta do is
choose
Live your life the way you wanna live it and ***** everybody else who try to control you and make you live and be someone you don't wanna be.
Ben Ditmars Jun 2014
lifelike confessions
play out like make believe

your metal warms
against my skin
reprogramming resistance

fabricated sweet talk
counterfeit concern
become too real

and I am drawn
more willingly
than magnetized.

© Ben Ditmars 2014
I wrote a poem inspired by Charity Parkerson's book Inoperative: Cyborg One. Be sure and check out her awesome story on Amazon.
Rochelle R Jun 2014
Lest you find yourself amongst the bones,
Mask your face and quiet your soul.

Flock in lines of the mundane and meek,
Zip your lips, peacful keep.

This genocide of individuality is perverting our kind, incestually.
Perfect patterns, mechanically, processed, soundly.

The flawed are pushed aside,
The individuals are boxed up, shipped out, Pariahs.

So, don your masks, one and all!
Suit up, and watch your sheeple fall.
Waiting in the car. Pariah is my favorite word... Of the day.
Next page