"cellphones" poems
Your limitless future brings great fear
The future is less far and more near
Glasses will replace cellphones next year
Hundreds can share one's eyes
People you replace will shed a tear
Tech is human's demise
You con with lights and buttons and bells
Amplifying strength, you fit in cells
We drown in technological wells
You thrive and humans shrink
The addiction will rot us in Hell
People! Log off and think!
When do we cease with this life carefree
It's time people let well enough be
Tech will soon replace humans for free
Tractors and new machines
Starved, by stealing the jobs of many
Limitations obscene
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
*Phones, shapely, laughing beauties of yore,
once patiently rested in cradles , what elegance!
waiting for the prince to come, give a kiss
break the spell, remove the curse!
Gone are the days of pampered babies,
no cradles for phones anymore,
cell phones, the petite beauties we all care for now,
are born grown up.
The baby in the cradle now
sobs demanding the slimmest of cellphones,
once able to lay hands on it
the games continue till the eyes droop .
Cradles get vacant now too soon
the petite phone rings with out
any rest day and night.*
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
“Life was easier when I was young.” Was what my grandma used to say,
“We didn’t have all the problems that people have today.
All of this technology, it helps clutter our mind,
Without it we’d be much less stressed I think that you would find.”
I never used to understand how she could think that’s true,
It’s obvious computers have made life easier for me and you!
Just look around at all the incredible things available to man,
The most powerful technology that can fit in the palm of your hand!
We have Email, and iPods, and TV you can record!
We have every kind of website to peruse if you’re bored!
We have Netflix, and GPS, and don’t forget Smartphones,
And we can do all our shopping with a mouse click in our homes!
Things have gotten so convenient that it’s so hard for me to know,
How somebody could think life was easier many years ago.
But as I grow older, I now slowly begin to see,
The difficulties that were also invented along with technology.
We now have cybercrime, which poses a very real threat,
Credit card information gets stolen and you can be crippled with debt.
And all your personal information sits vulnerable on your home computer,
Hackers can easily break in and take it like a cybernetic looter.
There are too many channels on TV you feel like your mind could drown,
And people in the ‘50’s never had their DVR break down.
People had only one phone at home; no cellphones at all;
Nowadays, I hate that anyone at any time can give my cellphone a call.
We have an entire of world of problems that we never had before,
And with the pace that society is moving they’re impossible to ignore.
As I get older, all this convenience slowly seems less grand,
And when I think of what my grandma said, I finally understand.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Cellphones and swimming pools.
ne'er the twain should meet.
The result can only be bad,
same for lawnmowers and feet.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 2:02 PM UTC
What a relief to set aside
my mechanical pencil
and write with you,
O Ballpoint Pen
found at the bottom of my pen box.
On your side is engraved
“Samy’s Camera.”
Did I walk out with you by accident?
or was it on purpose,
beguiled by your sleek, cool body
as you nestled into my hand
and I clasped you tight
likw my boyfriend in a steamy nightclub
dancing slow to Moon River.
Was I writing a check for
a roll of Kodak film,
ASA 400?
Or was it more recent?
Purchasing a digital mini-camera
to carry in my purse?
Before cellphones took selfies so flawlessly
that I tucked my Sony
into the dresser drawer
behind my underwear.
It lies abandoned
soon to be joined by all my
mechanical pencils.
You, my Pen, are my reliable companion
who will record lists for me:
To Do lists
Shopping lists
Birthday lists
Laundry lists.
You will record why my lover
doesn't want me anymore, but
I will tear up that scrap of paper
as soon as the ink has dried like blood,
that heartless man,
unworthy of the ink I waste on him.
O beautiful Pen,
sleek as the fur on a cat,
smooth as a gin and tonic,
solid as his hand on my breast.
for merely.
I hereby relinquish my mechanical pencil,
whose lead keeps shattering.
But you, dear Ballpoint Pen, I can press hard.
And how much more beautiful
with you
are the curves of my words.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world
in lieu of flowers send hope
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
Once, I bathed in anxiety,
soaking it all into my follicles and letting it slide
between my bones and through my muscles like ice water.
And I reeked.
Others couldn’t stand to be around me.
I became an inhuman symbol,
something robotic and unfeeling.
Then, I reached the peak of hypocrisy--
rejected sparkling convention yet was
simultaneously enamored with it.
I binged on harsh words
aimed at diminishing my sense of self.
I was a frail,
98-pound girl
looking into the mirror
and seeing only excess.
Throughout, I was weighted with bruised limbs--
from being grabbed too hard and pounded too rough against the floor,
and broken down doors and cracked cellphones--
which my father threw violently against the wall.
I watched the glass shatter and end tables topple
down at my mother’s feet,
her eyes wide and glassy,
her face fallen.
Once, I stood naked in a sputtering shower
and slammed my fist
—twice—
into the face of the person I loved
the most, leaving him
with a haunted
eye.
Then, I picked a flower from the sky.
Throughout, I cried because my father left me,
while pretending I was only crying
about a sad song.
These days no longer belong to me,
but the voices are still there.
And the ache.
And the fear.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
This Gen Z Kid..
This teen of mine..
This Young Man I'm reminded..He's my final Son.
This fast growing radiant dark horse
runnin around under the blaze of the hot sun.
Now He's grown into this tall knight champion.
Radiant chilled dark stallion.
He is unique admired and I'm in awe of His Being.
@Times I'd call him the hurricane..
Inwardly lays talents that can become gifted fame.
I believe He hears.. That voice of God.
When God calls his name.
This new kinda techno son.. Video emerged.. Youtube is his tv..
This son is Gen Z!
The cusp of millennials the beginnings of Generation Z.
Our Norms and traditions bothers them none. Open free and caring emotional nomes..
In the virtual reality chemistry..
Chilling inside their rooms in the safety of homes.
My Sons a precious commodity.
What technology wiz will he turn out to be.
Gaming entertaining.. mental challenging.
The Sons who'll be parents to the next Generation of Alpha's..
Babies entertained by notebooks of cellphone tablets.
More then societies adopted habits.
Babes that are digital natives on cellphones genetic cultures.
Terminology texted media exposures.
Data and gigabytes.. downloads and high speeds.
Swiping before being taught a first school lesson.
This is the generation..Z The Digital Sons.
Written by [email protected] (C)2018
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Sitting in that cafe
was like sitting atop the tower of Babel
a cacophony of language
like a hurricane was going on all around him
the homeless black men
who spoke with their own jive and jib
he knew some of the language
but was far from fluent
there were the Arabian men
talking into blue tooths on their ears
or into cellphones
or arguing with each other
outside over cigarette after endless cigarette
nothing but harsh blunt sounds,
it was beautiful in a way
and there is the Russian couple
bombshell athletic blondes
it was hard to determine whether the relationship was
Mother and Daughter
or coach and athlete
they were seemingly
all business
broken with interspersed bouts of laughter
and their were the Asian boys and girls
coming from Korea or Japan or China, or some other place
talking fast and easy
gesticulating wildly with their hands
and of course their was English
thick and arrogant in its tone
it was a language for movers and shakers
money makers and deal breakers
it sounded nowhere near as special
as the other languages
And there was him
sitting silently in the corner of the cafe
his language
the chitter chatter of the keyboard
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Since when did cellphones become another appendage?
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
On Loss
We’re always losing something.
Seconds, days take some french exit.
Time quietly shuffles out the back door.
Doesn’t even say goodbye.
Once we realize
our moments are gone,
we want them back. Maybe we can replay
them and take a second look, but the record skips and the tape jumps
and the film is splotched and some teenager spilt
wine all over the keyboard
long ago;
So we jump
from memory to memory like patchwork
realizing we don’t even remember the important things.
We don’t even know why we thought what we thought.
We can’t even explain ourselves to ourselves.
Our consciousness can’t muddle through it’s own muck;
our mind doesn’t even know how the mind works.
It’s not just an existential crisis.
We lose the small things, too. We lose cellphones.
Wallets. Innocence. Virtue. We pass some
tests, we fail some tests, we replace and are replaced
we stop loving and are no longer loved,
but eventually, bigger things. Friends. Family. Lovers.
Ourselves. Our potential.
Eventually, we slip away from the most important thing.
I’ve heard a bit about death. It’s a lot like sleep. You don’t even know it’s happening.
It’s a lot like
slipping into the unconscious;
it’s a lot like putting your head down; you don’t thrash about. You see the holy gates,
maybe. Maybe you’re pulled from your body
like a handkerchief. Maybe you don’t lose anything;
maybe you get found.
If this is melancholy, I’m sorry. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Likewise, you’re are allowed to be melancholy.
You are allowed to question-
you are allowed to dance, sing, shout, cry
know, love, forget;
You are allowed to lose. You are allowed to remember. What’s stopping you?
Who’s holding you back? No floodgates; you aren’t a flood.
There’s no sweeping metaphor; no sweeping generalization. You aren’t
a path, you aren’t constrained, chained bound or gagged;
confess if you must;
drink wine if you have too;
do some metaphysical exercise; transport your mind to some realm
explode, manifest, conquer,
Prepare to lose it all. Or let it happen. It’s a choice.
If I could, I’d help you through your heartbreak. Guide you through
it all,
make you smile. Make you happy.
But I keep losing things.
I keep playing all the songs I used to enjoy.
I keep reading all the things that used to make me happy.
Moments come and go, hours gently float away
Night will wash the palate clean, clear-coat the day;
I will love, and I will hate;
I will sing, and I will dance
I will grieve, and celebrate
I will shout, and by some chance,
I cease to be.
I will not be me.
I will go somewhere;
a dark room.
Somewhere where I am safe.
Nowhere at all.
Somewhere, sometime, somehow, a vauge
mirror you cannot avoid
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
*Smart phone paranoia, contagious at best
Has the zombies a stumbling the streets without rest
Transfixed to their cellphones, oblivious to all
By the lure of the Tweet and the Facebook’s enthrall
It’s ironically depressing that with all of this spin
When you download the Apps…the Devil walks in.
They access your contacts, Your banking, your loans
Your credit card details, unravel your phones,
Delve into your Facebook and spy on your life,
Check back through your history and peek at the wife.
They sell all your secrets to bidders galore
And when you go bankrupt… they’ll show you the door.
It’s “Caveat Emptor” or Buyer Beware
‘Cos technology’s clawed onto us by the hair,
It’s the Devil you do or the Devil you don’t
It’s progress with the crowd or resist and you won’t
Compulsion is growing by systems in place
By government, banking and big business pace
Through Google and Apple and Microsoft sway
The data is mined and the marketeer’s pay.
Tomorrow is here and we don’t have a choice
Ya live without Smartphone…ya won’t have a voice.
And the dragnet for data accessed by the Apps
And the sensors and whereabouts GPS tracks,
With the malware evolving to beauteous height
Means ya privacy’s shot and ya turn out the light.*
PS: Beneficium accipere liberatum est vendere
(To accept a favour…is to sell one’s freedom!)
Marshalg
Waiting for it all to come back and bite me on the ****
Pukehana
AUCKLAND
21 February 2014
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
I rarely get on Facebook anymore. But when I do, I'll change my profile picture or banner-- maybe post a witty status update, maybe not witty, just something to let people know I'm alive.
It's like repositioning the arms on a stationary mannequin to depict a different scene. Except lately I just don't care anymore. It's just that-- a mannequin. An object, an image, a lifeless entity with which I used to feel real-- a dusty mirror.
I see that the line between the idea of a person and the reality is being blurred and crossing over into something all-together different. It's as if people are starting to wake up and realize the objectivity of their reality. But that brings into question the basis for which we define reality.
We have become a, “Look but don't touch” society in which we click a button to show our appreciation as opposed to genuinely reciprocating human emotion and energy. It is extremely isolating and dangerous.
Packed subways and sidewalks have fallen eerily silent with faces illuminated by their cellphones. Most everyone wants to be heard, appreciated and recognized and social media has provided an outlet for that.
But there comes a point at which your platform becomes your prison and your voice your warden-- and everything you say is modified to be pleasing to the ear and 'likeable'.
But I like dislikes. And if you're not ******* anyone off-- you're probably not doing anything important, and if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Dark draped the Ferry in confusion
on its final, fatal night.
Survivors spoke of a collision.
They knew that something wasn’t right.
A class of students on a trip
Bound for Jeju from Incheon
The Ferryman said to stay below
but he debarked and they’re all gone.
The ferry Sewol began to list
and water poured in through her ports.
Will anyone present forget the screams?
Souls in torment fill their thoughts.
Search and rescue soon became
a sad and grim recovery.
Their final moments were caught on cellphones
recovered from the silted sea.
The Ferryman has much to answer
About those students left behind
Perhaps in dreams he will be haunted
as young drowned faces flood his mind.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
And so as a man, a job,
a cactus wearing a business suit sharing relations with the hydrant down the street.
A ***** strapped to a baby carriage with plastic baggie cellphones
yelling "run away now"
to the grass at his feet.
A man devoid of water, rather.
These are the times
A well, emptied.
Rather death
find waves of spilled milk and
all the fat people, skinny.
A dry mouth desert, kneeling
In either breath of a living feeling
or the one that talks of so much
for only the wealth of his screaming.
Some tiny furniture talked all night about running through wheat,
ebbing and flowing against the end tables,
then falling short as crumbling tree leaves.
An ottoman as recycle bin holding stem
from stem of watermelon children
and vine-ripened acetaminophen.
Some odd truth told the blowing wind that
God does cartwheels with Lucifer at random.
It then billowed out about
his ***** underwear and holy fodder for memorandum.
I would say a man, a vision,
A little girl using a GPS to calculate the distance from the rest her teething.
Instead, she found a funny barbeque ***** playing hog-tied pharmaceutical reps into neoprene
mud-flapping pigeons.
I would say the sinking plastic six-pack islands revealing trash limbs,
sunken,
honest,
grim.
Life, itself, must move in tandem to only fleeting geese.
Though in plan, the artisan-picking fruit of word must be depicted.
Live in sin and ignorance much like the
breaking news walking on broken record.
And so as a man; a fear.
He looked down, staring at no one
with bare feet and shaken, coconut flavored palm trees.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Heat waves in iced water.
Chilled moonshine on the scorching sun.
Blades of green earth on a long-lit fire.
Fresh-water creatures in the salty sea.
A glow, brighter than, and in the ocean of night.
A rock in the sky and birds that can't fly.
A whale on the beach with the sea out of reach. And Blossoms in a dark room.
An infant on his feet soon to fall into defeat.
Ever-greens in winter and ghosts in mid-day. Lungs underwater and gills in air. Like drugs in one's system that slowly pass through.
Owls at dawn, daylight birds in nocturnal song and eyes staring at the sun.
A snake on smooth surface and a worm on the rough.
Like a house cat in the wild mountains and rivers in suburban territory.
Like pillows stuffed with stones and a child with evil inside.
Free spirits in a cage and prisoners freed.
Like a stick in quick sand, a weighted mass floating on a light surface.
Like a dog, a cat and rat peacefully below one roof.
Like a beaten lion and a victorious antelope.
Like the colour of green against the shadow of black. Like hopping on concrete and civil wars. The hood in a college girl and a college girl in the hood.
Like curtains in the morning and yawning windows at dusk. Like an aged oak in the midst of a flood, like a water lily in the days of drought.
Like a forgotten pearl in a waste dump and fake gold on a woman's index.
Like a loud song muted by those who fear volume and a soft one forced to yell above its pitch.
Like a ladybug on a pesticide- poisoned crop.
Like a polar bear in the African Sahara.
Like a camel by the coast, ants with no work and busybodied sloths. A scarf in summer and crop tops in autumn. Plants dying in September and coming back to life in June.
Like a written-on page on a brand new day and wordlessness when that day is old and weary.
Like a torch at midnight. Like cellphones in a filled bath tub.
Like a fat man sprinting and the turtle losing the race. Like a homeless mother in a mansion.
Like a teenage girl with no tongue, and oppressors with no power.
Like David and Goliath, like a insane Albert Einstein. Like a flame on the ocean floor. Like me in this world, I shouldn't be, but I can be and I will be.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:29 AM UTC
The machine can only tell the truth
spit receipts( sometimes out on the street)
calculate how much your worth
and make you blush
if your bank account is below expectations.
Each time I stand before the Master
punching secret numbers
searching my memory bank for the last figures
I left behind
I am apprehensive and afraid
the ATM may punch back at me.
There is a long Q at the back of me
and the people that know their value
often shuffle the most.
Its us poor guys that must endure the pain
of exposure.
One of these days I going to tell
the teller in the ATM that my value
is more than just dollars and sense!
Thank you. I'm out of the q now with
twenty bucks. Phew!
Author Notes
These days I am writing poems of ordinary things. Bus Tickets, ATMs, Cellphones, Railway Tracks, Mr and Mrs Ordinary and all things that keep us attached to life and living. There's more around us than what we care to notice.
As a past time, I sit on a street bench and watch people as they go about their daily lives. The odd one deserves a poem. Thank you.
My last series covered Revolutions and Power. This series will cover Ordinary.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
The sadness continues and hilarity ensues:
With a close eye on the test tube, I burn down my venues.
Foxes and diamonds from the cancer within you
Grace my ****** health with phrases that spin you and
Body-parts scattered beside collapsed ladders with
Hair torn and tattered and dog jawbones shattered,
Deceived by a tarot-card-reading man with a hook hand
Who said the scam was a means to increase public demand
Before walking through sewers to see old friends skewered
On trees made of wire with leaves like computers
From Silicon valley rejects who were top of their classes,
Oblivious to the fact that they're dead to the masses,
Who only want cellphones that tell them their names,
So they can remember who they are and from whence they came
And how old they will be on their final birthdays,
When sunlight and skies will be fluorescence and X-rays
And children will tell all their mothers to die slow,
Because they're looking for something more loving than "I know
How much you hate yourself and the world surrounding
Because the applause at your funeral won't be resounding,
Plus your father loves alcohol more than your sister,
Who you may not have known, had your father not missed her,
Which is why all the walls are covered in blisters
And there are cat's eyes and hands peering out of the ******
To which there is no reply, save for incredulity,
For as we collectively die, you all put on all your jewelry,
Which was made by a child with no concept of labor,
Who gets less respect than sweater-vest wearing men in the paper
Who get there by switching the flow and catching the vapors,
Like sentient parasites or intelligent tapeworms
Who tell me it's unhealthy to meet someone and hate her
Simply because when I look at her all I see is the savior.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
We’re riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship,
used to ride in a hybrid with eyes red,
now I ride a Tesla clean as a whistle,
used to use the pen as a sword,
now I use my laptop as a missile,
sorry I’m not sorry if I missed you,
didn’t intentionally diss you,
just been focused zoning on my poems,
keeping it going with my mind on the mission,
listen,
this is the future,
most are out to lunch better catch up,
this isn’t a **** it sandwich this is blessing dressing,
not an invalid salad but an important portion so pay attention when addressing us,
fck,
trying not to cuss too much,
but what the fck,
sometimes too much isn’t even enough,
probably heard that before,
probably didn’t know that was my line,
see when over a million people have read your words,
your words get rewritten time after time,
rewritten but not bitten see there’s a difference,
and yeah I know that the difference is a line and that line’s fine,
and it’s crossed when the message is lost and the spirit leaves the body,
but it’s not when I hear the words repeated in songs and I know those words are mine,
because when I know other people also know albeit sublimely,
I guess that’s what happens when your work outgrows you,
when you hear words you wrote in songs and quotes,
and it gives you that potent mix of anxiety and adrenaline,
which leads you to speeding by throttling the clutch like a throat,
heading north on America’s most west coast road,
going 100 MPH with no MPG up the PCH,
no MPG because the ride is all electric,
like we are running in this lifelong race,
racin’ with Jaden we ride out to our Topanga hideout,
got a whole 10 acre mountain top up there,
where we go to get ghost when we need to get away from foolish folks,
from their flashing lights Hellish cellphones and all their blank faced phony stares,
riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
“why don’t you write a book?”
they’ll expect
a second
if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book
“you should write a book”
poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides
no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate
you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
A showdown on Sunset
At sundown the two met
A breakdown of Corvettes
Cellphones drawn by execs
From holsters, my wild west
On speed dial is the best
Lawyers to slow down, lay to rest
This showdown of suits neatly pressed
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
I think we buried him here.
No, no. Don’t dig him up.
Sometimes when it rains the earth opens up and blood pours out.
It’s like flesh, you know?
It’s getting harder to breathe so the pores have to open wider every fall
and more and more blood rises.
The other day the electricity in the city died.
No, not just the lines.
It was like a pulse.
Every electronic device failed
and suddenly we all saw ourselves reflected in our screens;
cellphones, televisions, laptops.
Everyone was so scared.
I remember a child gripping his knees.
Mum, mum, he repeated, but she didn’t reply.
I listened for a minute
and did nothing.
Hey, cheer up.
Some say at the end of every year, all the dead skin we’d shed to that point forms back into itself.
Living, breathing beings indistinguishable from their hosts.
No one knows if they remember their pasts,
if they are born as blank slates or prefigured individuals
destined to repeat the same mistakes,
over, and over, and over.
One day they’ll take over the city and we’ll be out of jobs.
They’ll forget everything we spoke of today and drill deep into the earth.
The flesh will split so cruelly it won’t ever knit back together again,
and blackened blood will carry skyscrapers into the earth.
Don’t be sad. It’s inevitable.
Think of it as returning to the womb.
A pure
unending
nothing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
Should we be grateful ?!
We can eat three times a day.
Meanwhile people in Gaza are starving.
Should we be grateful ?!
we can drink coffe , fruit juice and cold drinks
Meanwhile people in Gaza are thirsty.
Should we be grateful ?!
We can sleep using a warm blanket in our comfort room.
Meanwhile people in Gaza are freezing in flooded tents.
Should we be grateful ?!
We can freely use wifi.
Meanwhile people in Gaza have difficulty getting internet.
Should we be grateful ?!
We can freely use electricity.
Meanwhile people in Gaza have to charge their cellphones using solar panels.
Should we be grateful ?!
We can relax and enjoy the beauty of nature.
Meanwhile people in Gaza are trapped in dangerous chaos.
Should e be grateful ?!
We can go to any places we like.
Meanwhile people in Gaza don't know where to go.
Should we be grateful ?!
We have money to buy anything.
Meanwhile people in Gaza have difficulty getting donations.
Should we be grateful ?!
We can buy all the necessary things.
Meanwhile people in Gaza cannot buy anything because prices are increasing.
Should we be grateful ?!
Our children can play in the park and go to school.
Meanwhile children in Gaza are exhausted from queuing for water and food in the sweltering heat.
Should we be grateful ?!
Our children can sleep peacefully while having sweet dreams.
Meanwhile children in Gaza cannot sleep because of the sound of non stop bombardments.
Should we be grateful ?!
Just because our lives are still pretty normal.
Meanwhile the lives of Gazans are far below normal.
November 2024
By Alvian Eleven
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
• Confessions in the booth, I’m questioning the truth.
Reds Rushing to the foot,
blood running where i stood, shutting shooting down the veins, the Hiipower is nothing but rude.
It leaves without me asking it too, at least keep in touch.
All that screaming and such.
... And all that crying and such.
I've had had it, more than enough.
I'm just shouting things out
"it's just ******* blown!" and "it's ******* gone!" i starting running, around, the surrounding.
I wrote the words to this verse with the nervous nerves pumping in reverse,"Lex i know that you heard"(what?).
The hurt in my head, shut.
I'm feeling well with the cuts, I still take alotta **** to heart,
if those ***** call you a ***** I’ll shove their cellphones up their butts, if she calls you again, hang on that ****
I'm tired tonight, my head is rig wired, chest is too tight, the cold is with KFC i know that caused i'm feeling so crushed,
I'm Lizzy elevated to the bottom of rushing, i can feel the surge, i can't find my words, i'm accelerating on hope from nothing, looking at Lexi looking at the way she behaves, i wanna tell her it's nothing, Lex, but she's gotten the hardest of it, ain't no way she's forgotten.
Anything can happen, something bout Lex's texts impacts with the voices in my head i'm being reinstalled from shreds.
The bad blood and bone.
I'm just so far, blown off gone.
Blown an' gone.
The whole ****** issue is just.
Blown an' gone.
Don't care about the visuals i'm just.
Blown an' gone.
Don't care about opinions i'm just.
Blown an' gone.
If it gets more difficult i'll be just.
Blown an' gone.
To anyone whose listening it's been real, with GooD GoD
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC