"autocorrects" poems - Hello Poetry

it's no coincidence dad autocorrects to sad or that family autocorrects to dysfunctional nights spent over-thinking spat out words that were meant to sting but not to stay embedded in minds that just like the ocean slam against the shorelines of our emotions pushing us so far out we have no idea what our words mean only that we'll regret them when the sun rises

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Apr 11, 2013

Apr 11, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC

camille-evans

regrets

it's no coincidence dad autocorrects to sad or that family autocorrects to dysfunctional nights spent over-thinking spat out words that were meant to sting but not to stay embedded in minds that just like the ocean slam against the shorelines of our emotions pushing us so far out we have no idea what our words mean only that we'll regret them when the sun rises

11

for pennies, an app to do the heavy lifting, rhymes, pentameter, all the quatrains ya ever needed strained fever, emotions rampant, insufficient and unnecessary conditions for poverty poetry evocation, even autocorrects insipid really bad tiresome love poems, après endless generation (degeneration?) who needs you you think no such animal you be write for the art of life cannot be mechanized wrote a poem, a wistful sad lament on mothers losing children, a prayer, a yelling, a condemnation, the app was, on this subject uncommunicative, un étranger of silence in all languages you can buy love but you cannot buy pain too costly and 3D printers give you plastic, disingenuous wholly unsatisfactory for a lousy $1.99 I'll write you customized, supply the situation, a few descriptive phrases, 60 minutes later, et voila! am you app, am your scrivener, don't do roses or violets but yes to rhythm and blues will take PayPal PenPal but no credit cards you may take my words as you own, take my credit, but I won't take yours... I am app human, bring me your lush, winsome, plain vanilla, tutti frutti, all acceptable, for where the real stuff comes from I have only mined the surface, the veins beneath richness for the asking

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Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC

third-mate-third

The $1.99 Poetry App

for pennies, an app to do the heavy lifting, rhymes, pentameter, all the quatrains ya ever needed strained fever, emotions rampant, insufficient and unnecessary conditions for poverty poetry evocation, even autocorrects insipid really bad tiresome love poems, après endless generation (degeneration?) who needs you you think no such animal you be write for the art of life cannot be mechanized wrote a poem, a wistful sad lament on mothers losing children, a prayer, a yelling, a condemnation, the app was, on this subject uncommunicative, un étranger of silence in all languages you can buy love but you cannot buy pain too costly and 3D printers give you plastic, disingenuous wholly unsatisfactory for a lousy $1.99 I'll write you customized, supply the situation, a few descriptive phrases, 60 minutes later, et voila! am you app, am your scrivener, don't do roses or violets but yes to rhythm and blues will take PayPal PenPal but no credit cards you may take my words as you own, take my credit, but I won't take yours... I am app human, bring me your lush, winsome, plain vanilla, tutti frutti, all acceptable, for where the real stuff comes from I have only mined the surface, the veins beneath richness for the asking

61

i still can’t say your name. not because, the sound makes me sad, but rather because the way the letters sit on my tongue and, the way the syllables leave my lips simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to. i wonder if you can’t hear my name. the way you told me to add an accent to the end. the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note, a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane that could fly to your heart. i remember how you recorded me saying my own name, because, you loved the way the vowels dripped off my lips one by one, the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently it sounded like a cursive word, wrapped and tucked behind your ear. i hope you can’t listen to those recordings, because I can’t listen to my favorite songs. i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name and closes knowing it said my own, because any time I type another man’s name on my phone, it somehow autocorrects to yours. i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind, laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her, so when you hold her hand, the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well: táti.

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Nov 30, 2017

Nov 30, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC

tatistreidl

paper cranes

i still can’t say your name. not because, the sound makes me sad, but rather because the way the letters sit on my tongue and, the way the syllables leave my lips simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to. i wonder if you can’t hear my name. the way you told me to add an accent to the end. the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note, a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane that could fly to your heart. i remember how you recorded me saying my own name, because, you loved the way the vowels dripped off my lips one by one, the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently it sounded like a cursive word, wrapped and tucked behind your ear. i hope you can’t listen to those recordings, because I can’t listen to my favorite songs. i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name and closes knowing it said my own, because any time I type another man’s name on my phone, it somehow autocorrects to yours. i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind, laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her, so when you hold her hand, the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well: táti.

28

I'm trying to be happy And positive And glow But it is not for me I'm trying to be good And write about happy thoughts And not write about how every time I smile my face autocorrects it to a frown and I can't help it because that is just me I'm trying to be happy because that's what people tell me I'm trying to be me because people tell me to be myself But myself is sad Sad is me I am sad

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Jul 5, 2017

Jul 5, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC

aly-mc

Trying to be happy for all the wrong reasons

I'm trying to be happy And positive And glow But it is not for me I'm trying to be good And write about happy thoughts And not write about how every time I smile my face autocorrects it to a frown and I can't help it because that is just me I'm trying to be happy because that's what people tell me I'm trying to be me because people tell me to be myself But myself is sad Sad is me I am sad

12

My mouth is a magpie. I collect syllables like shiny things and scream them into soup. Alphabet in disarray. Syntax on fire. Verbs wearing fishnets. I said please but it came out pyre. I said love but it burned at both ends and tasted like lightning bugs smothered in saran wrap. This isn’t poetry. It’s a word riot. A sentence rebellion. A grammar glitch in God’s inbox. I built a language out of side-eyes and stutters, called it flinchlish. Conjugated heartbreak like it was Spanish. (I hurt, you hurt, we— don’t talk about that anymore.) Sometimes I write elegies in emojis. Sometimes I tongue-twist psalms into punchlines. Sometimes I just scream into Google Docs until it autocorrects sorry to spine. My voice is a thesaurus spun too fast in a washing machine. Everything comes out wrinkled, wet, a little more mine.

0

Apr 6, 2025

Apr 6, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC

Kiernan515

Glossolalia with a Side of Grime

My mouth is a magpie. I collect syllables like shiny things and scream them into soup. Alphabet in disarray. Syntax on fire. Verbs wearing fishnets. I said please but it came out pyre. I said love but it burned at both ends and tasted like lightning bugs smothered in saran wrap. This isn’t poetry. It’s a word riot. A sentence rebellion. A grammar glitch in God’s inbox. I built a language out of side-eyes and stutters, called it flinchlish. Conjugated heartbreak like it was Spanish. (I hurt, you hurt, we— don’t talk about that anymore.) Sometimes I write elegies in emojis. Sometimes I tongue-twist psalms into punchlines. Sometimes I just scream into Google Docs until it autocorrects sorry to spine. My voice is a thesaurus spun too fast in a washing machine. Everything comes out wrinkled, wet, a little more mine.

29

LET'S FACE FACTS The mind is like a sponge absorbing the spilt ketchup of the moment gone horribly wrong. Or if one were to rub two atoms together they would burst instantly into a poem. Or not. Words go to jail if they fail to capture the state of mind of the person who believed writing was merely putting pen to paper. The writing untangles itself and word for word reenters the tip of the pen. The brain is made from papier mache but can be cast in bronze or set in stone. Some people don't even know they are host to a brain. A man whose name escapes me now but was an anagram for toilets cried that he could connect "nothing with nothing." I envied him and was jealous of his seeing. **** my doppelgänger who autocorrects everything I (dognapper leg engorged palp glopped anger "Grapple Ogden!") have strived to manifest here. I am an atom short of a universe.

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May 3, 2019

May 3, 2019 at 7:13 AM UTC

donall-dempsey

LET'S FACE FACTS

LET'S FACE FACTS The mind is like a sponge absorbing the spilt ketchup of the moment gone horribly wrong. Or if one were to rub two atoms together they would burst instantly into a poem. Or not. Words go to jail if they fail to capture the state of mind of the person who believed writing was merely putting pen to paper. The writing untangles itself and word for word reenters the tip of the pen. The brain is made from papier mache but can be cast in bronze or set in stone. Some people don't even know they are host to a brain. A man whose name escapes me now but was an anagram for toilets cried that he could connect "nothing with nothing." I envied him and was jealous of his seeing. **** my doppelgänger who autocorrects everything I (dognapper leg engorged palp glopped anger "Grapple Ogden!") have strived to manifest here. I am an atom short of a universe.

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