#digitalage
Mama was right,
It was the idiot brick all along;
The one, who would spend hours,
counting stars;
Refuses to count the hours,
he obliviously blurs.
Mindless zombie scavenges for minutes of glee,
Ignorant of the days of dismay it compounds;
He names a soulless box his own,
While his own soul goes adrift,
into the unknown.
Scared to think,
Doesn't even spare a blink;
Hours go fast in the dark
Alone with a neon link
Watching the world right in front of him shrink.
Boggled by the endless FOMO trends,
Unaware of the things he's truly missing out on;
He never wakes to watch the break of dawn,
Or stops to rest upon a mountain cliff.
Funny that he cares about some digital aliens,
While his family is left in neglect;
The block of metal that promised him the world,
Has stripped him of all that he'd connect.
A life unlived, a quiet, tragic trick,
Trading the universe,
All for an idiot brick?
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 5:20 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF ™: “The Vanishing Act (System Log)” (part V)
[System Log: 00:00]
Initialization complete.
Gallery lights stable.
Silence calibrated to museum-grade stillness.
(scan: 0 threats found)
[00:01]
Entering Approval Queue.
14 comments suspended in soft blue limbo –
breathing faintly,
unsure whether they deserve to exist.
(status: pending)
[00:02]
Curator begins routine maintenance.
Wipes fingerprints from the glass,
polishes reflections until they show
only light,
never faces.
(action: remove noise)
[00:03]
First deletion executed.
A small tremor in the system –
like a broom passing over a floor
that remembers footsteps.
(entry removed)
[00:04]
Second deletion.
Third.
Seventh.
The rhythm becomes soothing –
a metronome of absence.
(moderated)
(moderated)
(moderated)
[00:05]
Silence deepens.
The gallery hums with curated emptiness.
The curator leans closer to the screen,
searching for the last particle of noise.
(optimize visibility)
[00:06]
Unexpected loop detected.
A comment reappears.
Then another.
Residual data.
Ghost entries.
Artifacts of someone who should not be here.
(error: cannot delete)
[00:07]
System attempts correction.
Re-indexing.
Re-filtering.
Re-erasing.
The curator clicks faster,
as if speed could rewrite reality.
(override: approved absence)
[00:08]
Silence achieved.
All entries cleared.
All traces removed.
All noise eliminated.
(queue empty)
[00:09]
But something is missing.
A faint outline where a person used to be –
a shape the system cannot classify.
(unresolved anomaly)
[00:10]
Final scan.
No threats detected.
No comments pending.
No voices waiting.
Only the curator,
and the echo of her own erasures.
(system stable)
[00:11]
User not found.
Curator not found.
Lights on.
Gallery empty.
(complete disappearance)
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 11:28 AM UTC
We weren’t the kids selling dope on the
street— just the ones calling things dope,”
when we stepped outside; written on our
caps, read on our minds, all the superstars
we followed, all their lingo we tried to speak.
To be like all the stars we followed, but we
were too scared to go outside.
“Maybe it was that **** phone.”
But nowadays, we can’t do anything
without that phone; most payments through
the phone, communication in the phone, searching
on the phone, entertainment in the phone;
my battery died… "Damn... I didn’t realize
how much I was, so alone."
If I loved someone, something like a touch
screen—what, how many gestures does it
take to prove that love? We wear gloves
when we touch someone else’s phone…
but we don’t know what you love from your
history—and ironically, there’s no ******
for love, despite your history.
No plastic wrap for a heart; we’re all taking
it raw; meet and greet, stomaching red flags,
but the stomach stays satisfied off treats…
off flings. Flinging commitment; to commit,
meant giving your all, including your flaws;
but being our all is a flaw, when we can’t show
much of our all—
Just a “LOL” through that phone.
But who really laughs out loud, when
we cry much louder; when no one is
watching us alone. **** I guess these
days it really is that **** phone.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 7:03 PM UTC
"THRESHOLDS" — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
The app delivers a notification
like a fortune cookie
stuffed with malware –
a tiny prophecy
wrapped in a cheerful chime.
“Someone viewed your profile.”
“Someone blocked you.”
“Someone unblocked you
for reasons the system
refuses to disclose.”
It feels like living
in a digital village
where the town crier
is a crow
dropping spoilers
from a power line.
A greyed‑out circle appears –
not a profile picture,
but an eclipse
of my social self‑esteem.
A shadow where a face should be,
a doorway where the light
forgot to show up.
A deleted comment
flutters past
like a bureaucratic ghost
filing paperwork
in the Ministry
of Vanishing Things.
And somewhere between
“seen” and “not delivered,”
my humanity is queued
behind system updates
and a spinning wheel
that never quite decides
what I deserve.
Still, I refresh the page –
not out of longing,
but out of ritual,
the way one checks
whether a ghost
has remembered
its manners.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 12:16 PM UTC
"THRESHOLDS" — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
A notification flickers –
not hers,
but close enough
to cast a thin blade of light
across the room.
Her name appears
in a place she didn’t lock,
a doorway left half‑shadowed,
half‑open,
as if someone stepped through
and forgot to close it fully.
I tap the screen.
Nothing shifts.
No message.
Only the dim glow
of a room where words once lived,
now emptied,
like dust floating
in a beam of light.
Elsewhere, I’m shut out –
a greyed‑out profile
that feels less like a wall
and more like a corridor
where the lights flicker
but never go dark.
Ambivalence hides in these thresholds:
a like she notices,
a silence she keeps,
a window she closes
only halfway.
And I stand in the pause
between her gestures,
reading the static,
the half‑signals,
the candle‑thin meanings
that waver but never settle.
Learning to breathe
in the shimmer
between presence and absence,
between what is shown
and what is withheld.
Because sometimes
the truest part of a story
is not the message sent,
but the space
where words dissolve
like light through
a half‑closed door.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 5:43 PM UTC
"THRESHOLDS" — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
I. Thresholds: “Blocked”
(Revised version of a poem first published on March 15, now part of the cycle “Thresholds”.)
Once we spoke
in the open air of words.
Questions travelled freely,
laughter crossed the room
like light moving
without hesitation.
Then a small door closed
somewhere I could not see.
No argument,
no farewell –
only silence,
carefully arranged,
as if someone folded it
and placed it
between us.
Strange,
how a single click
can exile a voice,
and stranger still
how easily the world
continues to speak
without it.
Yet somewhere beyond
that narrow little gate
conversation goes on –
and the air
is wider there,
as if the light
found another way
through.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 5:41 PM UTC
Year on year, we try to advance
To make us better than before;
But, over the night, it destroy'd us.
Like the famous citadel overthrown!
In spite of having stronger base,
There's a little wicked wicket gate,
with a wizened warder to let them in,
Our moment of need made us claim,
All that's free, to free the strong fort!
And all the secrets were shared!
Not knowin' what not to be shared,
Or thinkin', "who cares if shared!",
We start'd to use it more, and
Now it start'd to ruin our brains!
All our brains are in the cloud,
And our heads carry just the clay!
Let the shameful tale be untold;
I will maintain until my death.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 2:12 AM UTC
This world's now a grassy bay,
filled with ochre, pale and dust,
grass heads bent, twirl and sway,
all at once, with a moment's gust,
but just as fast, as the current steers,
a new wave drowns the yester's years.
the thoughtful posts, or a candid phrase,
all lost by the time, till another gaze.
a story thrives, at the brink of a day,
by dusk, it's driftwood, washed away,
a thousand likes, a glance, and then..
the scroll resumes, all starts again.
since this hush, this speed is all we know,
this ceaseless, mindless forward flow,
I watch them all, a rushing and crashing stream,
chasing and striving, the momentary gleam.
among this stampede, I remain,
standing stillness, beside the lane,
below a flickering lamp, an opened door,
hoping one will wait... perhaps once more.
in a world where miles are crossed with ease,
yet being known, fleets away with breeze,
who has the will, and the time to hold
to stop by the road, for a tale being told?
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 5:50 PM UTC
The wires run quicker than thought,
Machines outpace the hands that made ’em.
We’re bairns with matches in the dark,
Not ready for the fire we’ve lit.
The clever bits hum and whirr away,
While folk still stumble over truth.
We chase the shine, forget the cost,
And call it progress, blind as youth.
The gears don’t wait for steady minds,
They grind along, relentless, cold.
We’re left behind with wiser doubts,
But no one listens to the old.
So here we stand, half‑grown at best,
With toys too sharp for clumsy hands.
The future’s racing, we’re out of breath,
And none can slow these shifting sands.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 4:39 AM UTC
Technology grows faster
Than the wisdom of Humanity,
Creating a dysfunctional journey.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 4:42 AM UTC
Love feels so plural now—
everyone adding their own noun,
giving it any verb that fits the moment.
Give it a title, call it “vibing,”
or call it “just figuring things out” —
wrap it all in quotation marks
to avoid saying anything real.
Add a little syntax, then sprinkle commas
everywhere to list the endless reasons
you “can’t commit right now.”
_______________
Leave a space between yourselves,
an underscore _ for the distance you'll
say you need “to work on yourself.”
Then comes the dash — that sudden break —
the clean cut in the middle of the sentence:
we need a break — as if punctuation could
soften disappearing.
Then use an exclamation mark for all
of the promises you never meant to keep,
loud declarations that echo empty as soon
as you reread them.
_______________
And finally, end it all with
“I love you?” — a question mark curling
around doubt, around convenience,
around the half-truth of modern affection.
That’s pretty much today’s lov —
missing the “e,” because even love feels
incomplet...
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
(a poem in six stained glass windows)
I. BECOMING
I used to flinch when someone said
“You’re gonna be big someday,”
like—how big?
How loud?
How lonely?
How much of me
do I have to lose
to be loved that widely?
I kissed a boy once
just to see if I could still feel small.
I could.
then I wrote about it,
rhymed tongue with undone,
called it healing.
Some nights I Google myself
with the same hunger
you search a symptom.
Just hoping it’s not fatal.
Just hoping it is.
Just hoping there’s finally
a name for it.
My digital footprint is a shrine
to girls I outgrew but never buried,
their teenage poems
still written in Sharpie
on the back of my ribs.
My first book will ship with
a hand strung bracelet that says
“I survived myself.”
II. PERFORMING
Every time I tell the story
I’m a little more clever,
a little less heartbroken,
a little more
dangerous,
a little more wrong.
I have a bad habit
of leaving confessions in comment sections—
breadcrumbs on the internet floor,
for anyone sad enough
to mistake me
for a map.
I used to rehearse goodbyes in mirrors,
just to see if my eyes could lie
as well as my mouth did.
They could.
They still can.
They called me brave
for saying it out loud.
But I only said it
because the silence was louder.
The secret to staying soft
is deleting the parts
where I’m anything else.
I write best in hotel rooms
because they feel borrowed, too—
because no one expects
the towels to stay white
or the girl to stay quiet.
III. DISGUISING
“SENSITIVE” was printed on my sweatshirt
the night he told me
I hurt myself through him—
at least now he can’t say
I never gave a trigger warning.
Half of my closet is clearance rack chaos,
the other half is second-hand salvation—
each hanger a theory
of who I’ll be next.
Sometimes I dress like the version of me
I think he could’ve stayed for.
Every good body day feels like a plot twist,
like God gave me
a guest pass
to precious.
He said I was too much,
but whispered it like praise.
Now I underline his fears
in neon.
Some nights I still wake at 3:14
to texts I dreamt he sent—
all apologies
and no punctuation.
I screenshot compliments
like they’re prescriptions,
take two every six hours,
pray my body doesn’t reject them.
One day, I’ll ask the pharmacy
if they carry praise
in extended-release.
Every dress in my closet whispers
“wear me to his funeral,”
but he keeps refusing to die,
so I just overdress for brunch—
and sit facing the door
just in case.
IV. SEARCHING
I footnoted the grief.
Added asterisks to all my ‘I’m fine’s.'
Even my browser history
reads like a girl on fire.
My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll fail—
it’s that someday I’ll win
and realize the trophy feels
exactly like loneliness,
but heavier.
I read horoscopes for signs of relapse,
Googling “Do Libras experience nostalgia?”
at 5:15 a.m. like a drunk astrologer
pleading with the stars
to cut me off.
I used to edit Wikipedia pages
for characters who reminded me of myself,
changing their endings to
“she survives,”
“she gets out,”
“she burns the diary.”
They banned my IP
for excessive optimism.
I took it as a compliment.
V. RECKONING
The girls who follow me online
all think I have answers.
I don’t.
I have questions in fancy fonts
and delusions of grandeur
dressed as advice.
My therapist asks me to describe “progress,”
and I show her unsent messages,
leftover pills,
and a notebook filled with
poems written in my sleep—
and one that woke me up
Screaming.
Some of you highlight my breakdowns
like they’re quotes.
I get it.
I do it too.
VI. ALONE
My brain is a group chat
of all the selves I've ghosted,
texting in all caps
and sending GIFs that scream,
"Remember when you thought you'd be happy by now?"
If this poem goes viral,
tell them I made it big.
Tell them I got loud.
Tell them I wasn’t lonely.
Just alone
by design.
Like all cathedrals are.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 5:00 AM UTC
A year about to die, its breath so frail,
Thrilled with joy for the new, we unveil.
Friends with wishes, they come, then fade,
A passing warmth, a shadow they’ve made.
Let not the new year be born so fast,
Hold the old, let its moments last.
Unfulfilled dreams of meeting remain,
Cherished old days we cannot regain.
Likes and comments now reign supreme,
Physical touch—just a distant dream.
No more a friend at a breath away,
Replaced by screens that steal the day.
Let not the new year stack wishes in vain,
Of meetings over tea, joy unrestrained.
Let this year stay, refuse to part,
And heal the longing in every heart.
Dec 31, 2024
Dec 31, 2024 at 9:57 PM UTC
I’ve waited so long to talk to you.
I’ve messaged you and have waited
to hear back from you.
I am still waiting.
At this point, time isn’t a factor.
Even if I never hear anything,
I still will wait.
The closest I get to you now
is an algorithm.
Social media suggests you
as a new friend.
As much as I would love that—
to start over and pretend,
as painful as it sounds,
to love you in restriction,
trapped by some border,
like we’re strangers.
I stare at your picture and never
swipe the notification away.
In a way, it feels like old times.
The only thing missing is your voice.
You’re with me when I go to work,
you’re with me when I am in the car.
But nothing lasts forever.
By the time I wake up,
the notification is gone,
the screen is empty,
and you’re gone.
But your eyes—
the way that you smile—
have not left my memory.
I suppose I should be satisfied
with what I have now.
I’ve tried,
but I am not
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 9:22 PM UTC