#device
"the wrong thing"
but then
— the cup shifts.
Not literally;
only in the way an object shifts
when the one watching it
finally admits
they’ve been watching the wrong thing.
.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 10:43 PM UTC
Phone-diction
Became a conviction
Everyone is bound
Without exception
Phone-world
Offers no restriction
It's a convenient space
No eviction
Phone-time
Equals the injection
Of dopamine
There's no rejection
Phone-crime
Doesn't yet exist
Each year a new smartphone
Seems hard to resist
A phone back in time had this function:
Connection,
These days oftentimes - it's the opposite action,
In search of warmth, love and appreciation,
We lose ourselves in phone-solation.
Apr 28, 2025
Apr 28, 2025 at 8:18 PM UTC
"Great!" They said.
"So I'll be you, and you be me?"
"Correct!"
"And you'll be them, and they'll be you?"
"Accurate!"
And so they all swapped their devices,
All took each other's names/profiles,
Saying nothing of what they were actually doing!
"So who will I even be talking to?"
"Don't worry, you'll know it!"
"But how will I understand it as them?"
"Wouldn't you know if you didn't?"
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 1:24 AM UTC
Engrossed in
Electronic word game
Famed on phone
Ad delay my
Path to next level
Dropping my attention
Sudden rush of
Nothingness in
My blood
No screen time
Felt a bottomless
Bleak pit
I fell until
I measured my breath
Of existence leaving
All defined on
False electric bait
Clips of wins and loss
Almost threw up
In my felt emptiness
Messy messy power grab
Measure me alive
Today and Now
Not then or ever
Dec 31, 2024
Dec 31, 2024 at 9:47 AM UTC
The lamp is now representing itself in the absence of being semi-peaceful. While having the inner-struggle in just simply trying it's best to get by....
After this very truest representation had sold itself to the highest bidder (being its own inner weakness giving into the symptom, that is "giving up"), without so much as a single plausible (enough) explanation...
Things don't become tolerated (very well), anymore.
After all, it's up to the standards of one's own grief to now simplify the very behavior (in their own sequence, after sequence, after even more sequences that have sheer luck tied to them without hesitation for utter pleasurable shame for the results that clutter the very cog in the wheel) that gives freedom in the disguise for wonder. Wonder...that isn't including its own freedom, as that's just another common (filled) sense illusion, now.
It's the very scenario that agrees that it hast to become free...in order to see its own self for what it had become....
Meaningfully speaking, everything up to this very point in time...comes with an arresting degree for silencing the inner willpower of an inner voice that can't (safely, very well) reach for the outside world (and even remotely reach out into the outside world, like...AT ALL...)! And simply express (for the life of itself), its own symptom. Not only a symptom (or two...) But more the very part as to how, or why, or what essentially became of itself...when it started feeling this particular (and more peculiar way...), where it doesn't know how to handle itself, anymore (in that very dire moment for shameful results). Especially the guilt trip that it starts to feel (all the sudden), when it begins feebling itself over such hesitating tip-toeing maneuvering. But what comes (next, anyhow) with so much as a single surprise...is that there's always a certain something, (or certain someone) truly waiting for you on the other side of a spectrum (where you have yet to truly notice in ALL such forming varieties upon the certain specified number of emotions bleeding itself DRY for the appreciation of finding a solution too it's current problem....)
Once you understand this...or more like correcting the wrongs (that had up to this very moment in time, had made you this spiraling short-circuited piece of machinery, or justful faulty technological prowess...) Gives you the very nurturing desire to bid farewell to your own inner strength. Just so you can now have the very pleasure of now purging past this unknown barrier on the other side of this spectrum that has this very certain (someone) waiting for you...that will then of course, give you that single, (when you least expect it...) RESTART! That had been in an orderly fashion ever since the very beginning (when you first started first experiencing this symptom in the first place). A trapped scenario full of crippling sequences of events!
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 5:49 PM UTC
Should a poet consider
what their work looks like in portrait mode
and adjust their lineation accordingly?
Or should the responsibility be on the reader to use landscape mode?
Dec 6, 2020
Dec 6, 2020 at 2:44 AM UTC
Going between devices
moving back and forth
to get this done,
shifting device to device,
to draw you digitally
and paint you physically.
Now leading to a
speculation,
to make it flow
from one device to next.
to make our extended
product risk scoring.
© Feelings Coated
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
This device in which they call, "phone," has now become a source of sadness every time I set my eyes on it and the first word that my eyes encounter is "Mummy"
red
green
cut
pick
Which one should I do?
I am stuck in the world between those two
The green might bring joy or pain, for her voice most of time times makes me feel disdain
Pick: my grades. Distraction, I face
That's all she ever says
and whenever any good words come out of her mouth, they don't last long because they come with warning reminding me that I can be foolish most of the times
Red I pick, punishment I feel. Pain, I'm inflicted
I guess she is my supreme being
Never will she admit that from her mouth, but when I cut the call, I remember that she made love and I was the result so if not for her, I would not be in this world.
But then ... I'm stuck in the world between those two.
No red
No green
No cut
No pick
I just let it ring and dance to the rhythm.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 9:50 PM UTC
Her crisp vocals paint paths, long poised by me.
Her beauty is a reality where my ecosystem drives.
Her omnidirectional audio reads every touch and feels every string.
Her heart-bytes pump voltage in my device(veins).
Her smartness is a safe place, where I shut down.
© Feelings Coated
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 7:49 AM UTC
Our connections are cloned
so fast on mass scale, that soon it will be difficult
to recognize the original seed where uncounted we leave
unbinding of these beats on millions of devices.
©Feelings Coated
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 4:51 AM UTC
The opposite of end-stopped
Poetry; the trick with enjambment
Is to never complete a sentence, phrase, or thought
Within a single line of verse; but instead allow
The syntactic unit to run on
Unexpectedly, like a distracted self-drive tourist
Attempting to navigate a multi-lane freeway
Without indicating
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
When I was sixteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I sought seclusion
From fright in my mind; I was hunting a delusion.
What was wrong and what was right
Could never be far or near or protected with might.
When I was seventeen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I hated my mind.
Suffocating in a body howling with mistakes scared and lined.
Escape was hollow and deprivation
When a cold numb murdered little sensation.
When I was eighteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Laughter and warmth within and around,
Let us take a photo to capture what was lost and found.
Often I will reminisce about the night it all made sense
But I cannot remember it all, let loathing commence.
When I was nineteen,
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Now, I did not understand
For I could feel and touch and fall and land
Without sorrow or destruction at what I could not achieve.
Everything that happened, I knew now it was time to leave.
I am twenty six now,
And I remember when I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Digital memory captured it all
And a scroll reveals the forgotten, the joy and the fall.
I didn’t realise at the time we place our spirits into devices so lean.
So let me tell you;
Guess what?
We are now all just a great ghost
in a pocket machine.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
oft they've inquired as to
why their poems don't trend
this is a mystery only known
at the algorithm's end
a random pick done
by a selection device
inside the computer program's
unspecified dice
it is hoped that this brief
explanation gives some insight
as to how an anthology
receives the green light
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
My friend is my mobile device, Apple is my brand
Where I can see the world in the palm of my hand.
It goes where I go.
It is my cargo.
I Twitter if I need news.
I periscope if I get the blues.
To find great pictures I use Instagram.
Whatever you do don't send me spam.
And on snap chat please like comment and share
you can do something risque if you dare.
Oh and don't forget to follow friend and subscribe.
But for you I will not circumscribe.
I have no time for verbal conversation
I must check my Facebook notifications.
everyone loves me on all of my channels.
I could teach every one how to ride a camel.
And when I'm hungry I check out Yelp and Foursquare.
So I can find only the best restaurants I swear.
I have the menu before I arrive.
I see so many people who are deprived.
No one can argue their point with me.
Because I will google it Bing it or Yahoo all three.
If you make a post on Facebook don't make me catch you in a lie.
I will check Snopes, Hoaxes and Truth or fiction I'm not shy.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:39 PM UTC
I am a very old man
Living inside a plan
Of that great Creator
To create immortals
But I live in a body
That is very young
And very enthused
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC
What is maintenance? My life has to be cold,
planned, full of calculation. Otherwise, what?
Otherwise, I'll be old at thirty-five, bold, but too close
to a tragic slip, toes in the grass by open graves,
when peers gather, grow on pavement past the gates.
My life has to be cold, planned, full of calculation.
Otherwise, the most vital, underlying systems
yell in warning lights, compromised. You may
not think it problematic, but I can't interpret
signs of my demise already six feet down,
now can I? That's why I (we): clean, sort,
scrub, update outdated thoughts, as if
otherwise, I (we) cut the years I'll (we'll)
survive.
Open my chest for me, you,
lovely human you. Your
scent rises through the rain.
Could I live the way you live,
I would. But I can't, and I know that.
So let me react to your input,
open my chest for me
open my chest for me
open my chest for me
open me
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC