#input
The past circumvents the future simply because the past is again, simply trying to catch up with the future. Only because the future goes beyond the past’s own horizon (which is obvious to say the least)… …But nonetheless, has a greater beneficial outcome to sort out an input’s (“oneselves”) future events when the “past scheming scenarios” comes back and either “hit’s you” when you need it MOST, or calmly assorts the different factors into something you were NEVER aware of…until it was already too late to bear yourself suitable against!
Jul 13, 2020
Jul 13, 2020 at 3:35 PM UTC
Black box baboons speak.
Window lookers, people of screens.
Input character.
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 7:07 PM UTC
Possible titles:
happenstance
storm colors
Concrete chameleon
Original:
I watched the sidewalk
Go from light to spotted grey
Sudden rain shower.
A different version:
Watching the sidewalk
grey spots growing together
Stone chameleon.
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 11:30 AM UTC
to the colouring book
and the maddening imagination
the insistence of the scribes
and the glandular power of our missions
of the dome and the species
the turn of the trickster
and the business being
within our clan
in our hand
in the span of our grind
a product of our natters
is there shared scheme in mind ?
- an inhabiter
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
What good is it to want things.
So much longing.
So little input.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 9:08 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scrub, update outdated thoughts, as if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
Her color diminished second by second until all that was left was but an empty abyss.
A sense of such enormity that caused everyone around her to wonder what exactly was she made up of.
Was it secrets or portions of herself that she lay out on a table for everyone to read?
Had we been witnessing her story this entire time or was there more behind the surface that she intended us to decipher for our own well being?
Is she our dictator of soul or have we constructed her into the answers in which we as humans are constantly searching and never receiving.
For what are our determinants but our own minds in a world ravaged by constant input?
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
I think I need to talk to you soon
real soon, real soon
about this game you play and how it might cost
me my sanity in the end if you can't cross visible
bridges to meet in the middle
What do you see?
What do you see out there?
What do you need?
What do you need out of me?
What do you bring?
What do you bring as treat to the table?
Or do you come here under cover,
stalking the night for your secret lover
seeking only input and release,
without the drive to provide as you receive
I'll be downtown, driving, writhing in my car
thinking of you wondering if you're thinking of me
What did I mean?
Without providence
What did I mean?
Withheld provision
What I meant in the end to you
wasn't worth the wood that built our bridges.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC