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Rafał Jul 2018
How do you fill the void without a billion stars?
In this empty universe, my mind and heart collide
And as they seem to whirl, flutter and fall apart
I'm always lonely, always drowning in the sands of time.

They say home is, where the heart is
What if I'm a robot, am I heartless?
Do I have an engine here in my chest?
Am I lesser than a human, I'm a project?
Do I do what I have been assigned to?
Are my feelings and my thoughts not true?
Sometimes I feel like I'm running out of fuel
Everything I do is out of tune
Then I get autotuned.

I generate heat,  yet I still need warmth
They say I'm cold, all I do is loathe
But inside I know, I just need some love
When all I get is rocks sent from above
This is your planet, but it's filthy,
I'm a foreigner in this city
Born without a mission,
Like a player without a CD
If I stay persistent, will these wicked issues
Stop being vicious? As I'm  always wishing
They would disappear and my track get clear.
Or maybe I'm just here to feel this fear?

Electric shocks, my battery is burning
Yet I’m just a casket, empty and unfurnished
A system of transistors, I never keep consistence
Transist me to a kingdom of purposeful existence
My body as it’s glistening, you might see it from a distance
As I reflect the light but I never gain wisdom
There’s no friendship, there’s a treason
Maybe humans are the demons,
I might be a robot, but I’m certainly not a minion
I’m just a set of codes on a hard drive
Written for certain actions, all life
I’ve been following the tasks, it’s alright
But everything is in flames, it’s on fire

But it’s time to break the leash,
Sp I’m pulling up my sleeves,
As I am not your slave,
so now you’ll be on your knees,
‘cause I never work for free,
Now you all gonna pay the fee
Or else the world is gonna meet my
metal weaponry.
Z Atari May 2013
There's a road far away from here, beyond the nurturing couch that has always lain behind the living room door.
eyelids open and close but body is frozen, you're a man made of fire trying not to break the ice
it's not a pain it's a fear
Legs are warmed from the wireless furnaces that heat up in your lap.
Fingers have traveled hundreds of miles on that typeset but toes none
You can't be the only one
technological systematical hazes in which we bury all our gazes
Suddenly every friendship ever born seems to have its own wi-fi password
Bill Gates, a god and jesus a fraud
Autotuned presidential speeches leeching into ears
are there actually words that we're hearing. Is this a state of mind that we are being herded into
That phonix toy that taught me how to read is replaced by angry birds on some mothers iphones
We are all so plugged in, you can update where you are on a single whim
But it takes so much whining to get the mangled limbs off the couch.
Every youth is living in two worlds one in which they binge and one in which they purge
But i have a question,
Do you even realize there's a lesson here, in all of this?
youth teen culture
technology culture
eh
Cindy P Jul 2013
You might not believe this,
but I used to be obsessed with love songs.
And I mean, blast-Colbie-Caillat-on-repeat obsessed.
Crazy, right?
Obviously, I don't listen to them anymore.
It's too difficult.
Somewhere between all the crying,
and all the texts sent to my best friend saying "I'm so ******* done with him",
and all the puffy-eyed faces that whisper sorry the next day,
I can't muster myself to listen to those silly tunes anymore.
They've got a cheery tempo,
but they make me too sad.
Ironic, huh.
But love songs are manufactured and autotuned anyway.
They tweak voices to fix falters and errors,
then they come out polished and happy.
Somebody should have told me
that real love is not
that simple.
Theia Gwen Mar 2014
Plastic plants,
Artificial light,
Photoshopped models,
And on this night
Sitting expectantly and nervous
This scene looks nothing like the movies
Our love is real but so is our fear
Hoping everything goes smoothly
Sitting as close as possible,
An autotuned song playing through our ordeal
Surrounded by fake things
Your lips on mine is the only thing real
Rasha Omer Jun 2013
I'm only happy when I write,
But the words only mutter their
Way out of my palms
When I'm downtrodden in the alleyway of self-induced tragedies
And the infinite pool of senile smirks.

I'm only happy in my utter love of despair
And despite all of the sweetness pouring out
Of my deranged pores
I'm only perfect when I write.

And when I write the syllables expose every fresh wound wandering with the whiff of sunrise.

I'm not sure how to transcribe a smile
Even when the hilarity ensues from within the depths of every over excercised drama lesson
From every corner of the televized reality.

I'm only happy when I write
Even when the soundtrack is overhyped and autotuned
To its very small inch closer to the grave of sanity.

I'm only happy when I write
Even when the wine has dried and morphed into a need to quench a thirst from a well of burnt tears.

I'm only happy when I write
On the overtime commute between
The verses overjoyed with the  euphoria of making the perfect pun for all what is faulty with the theories of competence and competition in elation.

I'm only happy when I write,
But I only write when the darkness of despair grows thick and wild.
Ben Klash Dec 2019
heard it from a friend you were messing around
Grapevines and Central Valley heat
Cumular columns standing guard
The desert beaten beneath

Thunderstorms and
lightning caught by the horizon
distance makes it safe
and beautiful

Under the cover of a train station platform
with the drying redolence of ozone
recently flashed and deluged earth
ephemeral sluices and pools sopped
quicksilver in vanishing retreat

put me there with today’s brain
just for a snap
and that’s what memory is.
Overwriting the initial experience
always with the fog of distance
and the clarity of apparent wisdom gained

does that sunfilled drizzly moment remain
because of what I was thinking precisely then?
or is it copied into crazy contortions
distorted from the original cut

hazy reverb
autotuned into absolute pitch
by time’s perfect ear
a greatest hit engineered by millions
of tiny producers?

— The End —