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Annika J Jan 2019
Someone Needs to Get Me Away From My Computer
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Marshmallow factories
Are covered in goo

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Not all of these
Are going to rhyme

Roses are red
Violets are purple
Whoever wrote that
Was an idiot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My favorite is Discord
Who used to be Q

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you count in binary
You'll never have 2

Roses are red
Violets are blue
MEEP

Roses are red
Violets are blue, da ba dee da ba daa...

Roses are black
Violets are black
Everything is black
I'm Batman

Roses are blue
Violets are red
Something is wrong
With my head

The Math section is red
Social Studies is blue
I have too much homework
I want to cry

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Please don't get stuck
In the spilled glue

Roses are purple
Violets are green
I'm just here revving
My limousine

Roses are red
They have thorns
Don't touch them

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to turn this
Into a haiku

Roses are crimson
Violets are the fairest blue
And so fair are you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
That was pretty good
For being written on the fly

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Ridiculous Inflatable
Swan Thing

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I need to sleep
No

you are so And
sweet is Sugar
blue are Violets
red are Roses

Roses are red
Violets are blue
There is no try
Do not or do

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Dab on those haters

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Think I'll paint them
On my shoe

Roses are red, dilly dilly
Violets are blue
Is this copyrighted, dilly dilly
I have no clue

Lavender's blue
Lavender's green
I store my sanity
In a canteen

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm too cynical
And yet too cheesy

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Spellcheck doesn't know meep?!?

Roses are rosy
Violets are violet
I want to be
A submarine pilot

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Something something
Pikachu

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Illuminati
They're watching you

Gryffindor's red
Ravenclaw's blue
WHY IS IT AN EAGLE
NOT A RAVEN

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Be mine
I'm desperate

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't want romance
Stop asking

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm running low on ideas
We're almost through

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
Don't eat too much

Roses are red
Never mind
Life's too short
Eat all the sugar you can find

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're still here?
Good job you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Happy Valentines Day
Bye
Co-written by some of my family members.
#random #valentines #tired #roses #violets #crazy #meep
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Styles Jul 2023
spellcheck
with one look,
         she had me wanting to be with her
         make her so hot, skin feel like fever
         not only do I want it, I need her
         just to touch her, I am longing for
         and to feel her, I long for even more
#hot #love #poem #poet #poetry
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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
can't hack? facebook was built on ctrl + c
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chloe hooper May 2015
don't you dare tell me you know how it feels
misophonia is not getting angry when you hear people breathing or eating. misophonia is 'i'm supposed to feel
stronger because there's a scientific
reason behind all the pain clenched like a fist inside my own body, I'm
supposed to feel better.' that's what doctors say. but the answer is a long list of riddles the doctors can't
decode. 'we know why your heart is
breaking, but we don't know how to
stop it.' misophonia is the maximum number of pills I can hold without dropping any. it's the moment when my doctor says she won't allow me to go to a college more than two hours away. it's the effort to smash my own bones on cement just to drown out the sound of somebody talking about what they had for dinner. it's that autocorrect and spellcheck still don't  recognize it as a word. it's about hearing sounds so menacing and monumental that not a night goes by where they don't swallow me whole. it's the fear of leaving my house and hearing something bad. it's my hands not feeling like hands and everything I try to touch turning into snow. it's having to bring headphones everywhere in case I hear a word I hate. it's my doctor telling me with a sad look on her face that she'd be surprised if I make it to 45 years old. it's having to ask directors if any of my trigger words are in the script before I see a show. it's the knowledge that I'm a quickly ticking time bomb, that it gets worse over time. that I might wake up tomorrow morning not being able to stand the sound of my mother's voice. it's the fact that the most common result of misophonia is self harm but I've made it this far without it. it's my chest igniting every time I hear someone start to talk. (I'm sorry I can't marry you, I can't stand the sound of your voice in the morning). it's simple words that can cause my composure to break like a separation of continents, like all that hurt never meant anything. years of wishing, on my knees, that I was deaf so I could skip the chapters when my whole body feels like a slowly melting candle, like I'm not allowed to be afraid of fire. it's in 9th grade when the bell rang to go home and I was sitting in the back row of English class with my fingers pressed so far into my ears they popped, trembling, until Mrs Gitsis asked someone to take me to the counseling centre. it's not 'ew, I hate the sound of people chewing.' do you lose sleep because the reverberations of that sound won't leave your head? do you have to lock the windows on your second floor to feel safe? it's having to wear gloves in 90 degree weather because I can't see my hands without them. it's waking up at 3am to arms that turn into stumps, unable to go get help because the sound of footsteps makes me want to die. it's reaching for a knife every time somebody says a common word. misophonia is being taken out of school because I can't sit with other kids in the cafeteria. it's hearing clapping after a show that's supposed to be for me transforming into screeching metal tires reverberating around my skull at frequencies i didn't know were possible. it's feeling every nerve ending in my body start to tingle seconds before someone says a trigger word, like god feels bad for all he's done so far and he's trying to send me a sign. it's the fact that most therapists haven't even heard of it. it's the fact that the ones who have don't know a cure. it's that there is no cure. it's when all someone has to do is repeat sentences, words, and phrases they know will break me. it's when my second therapist told me I was making it up. it's when my parents told me I just wanted to boss people around. it's when I started not being able to eat dinner with my family anymore. it's growing up in a household with a parent affected by serious OCD who has to vacuum 24/7 but I can't hear a vacuum or else I'll try to see my pulse from the inside. it's the sadness and anger that clenches itself around my heart like a fist until I feel like the dust I was created from. it's when something as simple as the sound of a drawer closing makes me wish I were dead. it's the knowledge that one day I won't be able to handle feeling like an abandoned building and the volcano inside of my head will erupt. it's the knowledge that I can't get help. I can't ever get help.
I'm so ******* upset
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Matthias Mar 2011
The World is Run By Pronouns
Kids these days make me sick. Too much time spent on IT. What’s IT you say? Well IT is the only thing that is not. IT is in but really IT is out, like a drunk left in his ***** passed out on the couch. The ultimate cool the epitome of breathtaking, and your left taking this out of proportion. What is so important? I mean really I don’t understand the importance. A synonym for the learned: imperative or even essence. That is the idea of something but your left holding nothing. Not even a burnt out flame like the lack of heat from the passion in your heart. Does it need to start…once more? A muscle unused is abused and left to consume itself. You incite cannibalism! Munching on ourselves to feed our soul lost in this dangerous world. You’re too tough to ask for directions, too stupid to read a map, or too naïve to think you are alone in this? What is THIS? THIS is just IT after THAT. THAT is simply free thought. Yet the brain sits and rots in your cranium. That’s a fancy word for skull. The helmet, not to keep thoughts in, but to let them become mature and flow down into a puddle between my feet. You see this and harmful words escape your mouth and say I ****** myself. I think not; if my head is leaking that means my thoughts cannot be contained. In pain I see the young adults of our time reading line after line of the same crap we are feed everyday of our lives. A lie, a lie I scream from an empty room, a classroom. There are entities inhabiting the same plane, yet in the same they are not here. So far away lost in this digital age. I agree you cyborgs need entertainment all the same; however, the smile I receive from seeing the moon in the middle of the day is the found on your face when someone likes your page. A paper trail untraveled by so many and misplaced in cyberspace. I walk at night to see the darkness, and you see only the lit up text message from your lazy boy recliner chair. I am convinced you’re not all there, but that’s not your fault. I blame it on the generations. I do blame you because you succumb to IT. There is that funny word again that carries no weight, but wait it can mean so much. IT is the idea of reality and your losing touch. Thus, there’s a word I don’t think gets used enough. Thus, reality is known only by how well it is defined on Wikipedia or an online dictionary equipped with spellcheck of course because without that how would we know the right way to spell. Well, well in my lap a newborn child fell. Not crying, not smiling, I’m not sure if it was even breathing. This baby, helpless and fragile, is society. We as an assembly need a babysitter for our whole lives. Why? Why live without experiencing life? Why be content with any answer that was given, not found. You have to search to find and in time life’s chorus line will start and so will the tears. The so perfectly phrased line will place fear in all who understand. How can we understand when all left standing is man? Man a fragile thing like a mansion on the beach. Sand ******* up the existence of all the living. I want to introduce a new word: WHEN. WHEN will we not take the so-called facts as face value and attempt to discredit them with logical thinking. WHEN will we move the rudder instead of waiting for the tides to change? WHEN will we place IT on it’s own head and explain something we know to someone else. Learning is gained not by blindly memorizing facts, like my mac, but by forming an attack on the disbeliefs. Hopefully to hone an opinion and be ready to defend IT, and I mean in every sense of the word. IT is the idea of reality and your catching on. Leave the bottle of forward thinking, and begin to chew on the backwards and sideward food your not use to.  Open the mind and heart to be restarted by learning. Thought is the jumper cables to this world’s battery dead from leaving it’s lights on all night, and now late to work for it wouldn’t start. Roughly 6 billion, 775 million, 235 thousand, and 741 people on this earth and we still don’t feel part of IT. Have we lost IT, have we tossed IT overboard? The only savior to the sickness and now it is sinking to the bottom of the sea to be discovered like a lost treasure. A gold doubloon used to measure the currency of our time. The state of our States is left to us to state whether we hate or don’t care about the shape we’re in, a sphere, a bubble, a circle with no beginning or end. Nowhere to start just have to keep moving in the same general direction or be swept away by the undercurrent. Drop your anchor and disturb the flow, stop the overused pattern. Turn the cycle of a circle into the turning of a wheel and use that to drive. Finally to take a destination of you’re own and truly think of the cosmos. To place you’re cognitive mind into motion and here the notion that there is more to THIS then IT.
This is one of my many spoken word poems. I hope you enjoy it.
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Dead Rose One Oct 1
pedaling Jilly roses
~for Jill~

“from your messages”
elsewhere scribed, a
confession that your comments
be challenges like cool
well water drawn, a
fresh mix and minx,
a two flavored scoop
on a waffle (or sugar) cone,
mmm call mine, flavors of
inspiration and aspirations

it’s 2:46am, one would think
that a deadrose would know
better behavior, but up is up,
and down down down-come
tumbling words, as usual,
each screeching hoarsely

“pick me, pick me!”

uncover your note of appreciation,
side splitting laugh in shame md shock,
that spellcheck has altered intent,
one day, likely a  cause of a war,
or e v e n a new poem

peddle a rose
became
“pedal a rose,”
invitingly nonsensical,
my point exactly

but the awake-too-late idiot,
can’t stop me now ~ urgency
has mastered my     common
sensibility, thus        commanded
me to write and shine

somewhere nearby,(1)
babies be borning,
and flippers of coins,
old humans too,
be expiring on the
sell-by-date
some surrounded,
all surrendering

Angels sent to
both sides now,
to ferry them
back home,
their adventures
completed or a
preface begun

Oh
for the ferryman
to ferry them
across rivers whistling
hello my darlings,
to a new home,
with a clean
writing tablet
to inscribe their
owned
future or past,
making their case
for a future or a
memorized posterity

I am dancing on the edge
of that first category,
dancing tap before that ——,
unwilling to cross over
and the angel sent
with collection papers,
mine and JoeBideen,
can’t touch us yet,
while in the middle
of our latest composition
(ya didn’t know?)

where in the world
has this to do with
pedaling roses?

the angels offer enticements,
write like the great ones,
sit at the feet of Leonard & Sylvia,
get introduced to the author of
“Leaves of Grass,”

who will amend and correct
(using spellcheck)
your own new scriptures

for rules From Above,
are carefully careless,
and don’t care about
impossibility so
leap with me,
onto a bicycle of roses,
each pedal a petal,
each tire of  woven stems,

our destination is
everywhere, our purpose
to bring scent to those
who still have need to
breathe, and those’d who have
ceased
being needy
forever

filling nostrils
with colors of roses,
and finding poems
on the floor, full writ,
purposely scribbled
and scripted for just
a jilly one,
(just like
this
one)

just lacking a title,
just lacking a name,
customed for a single
customer, now a custodian
of a new born baby
poem
ready to be fedex’d
to its new owner
and deposited in
the this bank here,
right here

so thank you for
revealing my
inadvertent typo,
and aiding in my
quest to bring it to
a new life,
but must petal on,
for new babies are
being born and need
wrapping in a
a bed of white petals,
fresh happily donated from
living roses!

3:19am
(1) i live on an an avenue of many, many hospitals
#deadeoseonr #pedaling #roses #hill #jilly
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
Ivan Bunin in the 21st century
the oddity of it all, i can sound like a 70 year old, writing in 2016, by simply writing about 2004 - and that's the excuse everyone gives for lazy English text form: 2 (abc), 3 (def), 4 (ghi), 5 (jkl), 6 (mno), 7 (pqrs), 8 (tuv), 9 (wxyz) - where you had to press a button several times to get the right letter (even with spellcheck helping you shorten the digit-bag sequence) - but that's no excuse with digital phones and a complete keyboard... but that's how it looks, after only 12 years... i'm actually aged 70 given the advances of the technology advent... let's forget the technology of the 1990s... i've circled round and met up with people who collected vinyls... that's how old i am in respect to my buying habits... we're the silver-compact-vinyl kids: the ghouls of the 1960s, born in the 1980s and not getting down with the kids... and to readdress just two books: all that stream-of-consciousness made the latter end of Ulysses a bit like writing by candle-light... as was reading the plagiarism of the above stated in Sartre's iron in the soul... or as the puritans said: we're filling for at least a ¶ (pilcrow) to be inserted: not to mess up the idea of a river and "thinking aloud" where punctuation marks mean: stopping suddenly because you become self-conscious... i just needed a ****** bookmark! the monks at the time of Charlemagne used the ¶ quiet often, condensed bibles, ink was worth 20 camels and paper was worth 20 dresses for a queen... ah, the times when paper was as precious as silk... so the puritans condensed writing, they weren't as sparing in their inner feng shui - a room the size of St. Paul's... and two words in it: Jesus Christ... they were like modern day delivery guys, packaging words together, they didn't have the luxury to write paragraphs with the now established spacing afresh, i.e.:

            and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
             Florence was making a cup of tea when she heard Jimmy yell: 'my long lost golf clubs!' etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

i.e.

¶ and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

alternatively the ¶ went out of fashion in the literary world, once writing became affordable and changed into a profiteering case of bravado... but i still think ¶ is a bit like using a clef.*

or how to keep one's intellectual integrity: have a drink or two,
and muster enough creative energy to use this encoding -
or... how to make poetry akin to computer
programming - a subtler way to encode
the now slothfully rising moon:
half of it, not full, nor scimitar crescent,
a half bitten honey biscuit, just above the forest
horizon, and the semi-detached houses
of English outer-suburbia - in a sense
transcendentalism, a box with many words
in it attributed to the cause,
as is the reason why Christianity became
the most schismatic religion that has ever
graced man's "good will" (ambiguity,
not an approximation) - in line with philosophical
whims of vogue: idealism, realism, transcendentalism,
existentialism, ism after ism after the Methodists
and the Baptists and other mongrels of current
affairs... already stated: populist Platonism
and the ransacked and burnt library of Alexandria...
yes, decidedly, poetry as a variation of
computer programming - although more akin
to: the tetragrammaton and the Noah's
checklist of paired onomatopoeia(s) (plural
form is underlined, Oxford hasn't picked up
the circumstance: there are neurotics out there
who'd send you to the guillotine for not
updating "spelling mistakes" that aren't
"spelling mistakes" quickly enough!) -
to the cause or as signatures of being easily
recognisable as: yes, that's that... a moustache
and a bowler hat...            alternatively
watch a stand-up show by Miranda -
the very typical English-ness inside out:
hysterical from the word go... the ministry of
funny walk from Monty Python ***
                      the two walks at the airport -
or the trip-up on skewed pavement slabs
checking the impromptu socially acceptable
version of the other seeing us -
comedians do it oh so well: the inside-out,
stern exterior, boy ******* a thumb and relating
to a blanket as if it were an umbilical chord...
what a tightly knit individual...
                          made complete with about a dozen
patches...
                       but it is! it is! it really is already
ready to be likened to computer programming,
perhaps there's no <xerox> or other commands,
but poetry deals with encoding sounds,
no man can encode a proper roar of a lion
or a squirt of a skunk, that's sheer travesty that
so many people can actually muster enough
encouragement to encode these sounds...
i imagine a world where we don't even care
to write knock, and knock on a piece of wood
and a noumenon is born, the sound isn't noted
down, it remains a thing in itself (synonyms,
in italics) - it's probably akin to getting a tattoo,
great if you have a short-term memory loss
like that guy in Memento... but it's going to
be hard to displace knock-knock -
again this is already an approximation -
onomatopoeia upon onomatopoeia -
it doesn't even sound akin or properly dressed
to mention Plato's theory of forms -
sounds can be forms: apparently they're waves...
no waves are forms (shapes) -
or that demigod who fell in love with his shadow,
rather than his image reflected in a lake,
he fell in love: because it gave him enhanced reflexes...
every single time... boom... shadow... boom...
shadow... and so much of language goes into
these nonsensical types of encoding -
blah for: talking a lot -
                                           hmm - when negatively
pondering something -
                                            i believe that
there should be a grammatical elevation of the onomatopoeia
to the status of nouns, verbs etc. -
                           but it is, it is, it really is
like computer programming,
               above and beyond the sheltering vacuum -
how would we ever write a word to encode the
sound of lightning, or a volcano erupting,
or the earth spinning - in these areas i find god -
       i will find man in these areas:
but i'll be hinged on mathematical explanation:
and mathematics is pure optics -
                       so what that we can write one and write
1, write two and write 2, three and 3, four and 4 -
    by now we can write to, too, free and for...
and this is just the start -
                             by acknowledging onomatopoeia
for something, we acknowledge our limitation
of encoding something in that realm -
this inability gave us the emergence of nouns -
   sooner or later when someone started
talking about an earthquake... a litmus test of:
brr grrm boom bah dobble aah! etc.
we got the picture - and why would a monkey
evolve from its conscious-sleep reservoir
to say just as much as with a simple grunt and ooh -
actually, some onomatopoeia(s) became sophisticated -
a grunt is a sophisticated onomatopoeia -
       as is weeping and crying and shouting -
as is shooing (or to shoo) -
well, that's how i see it... poetry as reality programming -
since there's more than just a computer -
at the moment it just resembles a game of
whack-a-mole -                 although there's more than
the mere 26 primary moles -
      and all this talk does relate to something,
something very important at the beginning of the
20th century... well, a century later, and something
similar is being discussed... Ivan Bunin?
noble prize winner from 1933, the first russian to do so...
  anyway... this goes beyond his concerns...
his concerns were akin to that dud i made
with the word mruwka -
                               personally? i feel that the "correct"
version of the word is aesthetically displeasing -
and anyone who says otherwise treats orthography
not as an aesthetic question, but a question
of rubrics and regime - so there we have the "correct"
version mrówka                               (ant)       -
anyone agree with me? well, the English language
doesn't have any concerns for orthographic
regulation - it has excessive spelling and that's that -
what bothered Ivan was the Bolsheviks rewriting
orthographic rules... the word in question?
izvestia - that really peeved him off...
                      everyone in intellectual circles was
disturbed by the changes (can't recall the original) -
but the changes were approved by the Russian Academy of
Sciences (immediately before the revolution) -
there would have been any dispute about the "evolution"
in orthographic terms if done prior to Feb. 1917 -
the war postponed the changes, and with the Bolsheviks
in power... then obviously the suspicion...
   now... such changes are but farts in hurricanes
in comparison with what happened in the realm of English...
i mean, ****'s sake, we're talking minor aesthetic tweaks
here and there - the changes still encompass the form
that's understood by the ear, and it's only a matter of
taste where you write the word ant as either mruwka
or mrówka - well, mind you, i'm already asking
for the incorporation of the Czech š (sz) and č (cz) -
but what's happening in English... my god: it's terrifying!
all these acronyms? all these emoticons?
        i know that English journalists are in favour of
:) and :( and ;) ;) [wink wink] - and next thing you know:
you're talking to a monkey... you soon realise:
the deaf have nurtured a superior system of communication,
as have the blind than these poor, healthy, ably nimble
*******...                   how they're superior, i don't know,
and in all honest? don't care...
         for goodness' sake: a heard a story that a girl
wrote her g.c.s.e. English language paper in text format:
   e.g. c (see) u (you) l8r (later)          -
now you see why i think that poetry is like computer
programming?
these people are scripts from a classical software program
that looks something like: 3;r/d]]aq"pk.0    etc.    
it's a complete and utter mess!
                         fair enough saying: O Shakespeare O
Milton... those guys are turning in their graves...
and they ain't showering the English language with
graces mind you: they're calling it the new
***** & Gomorrah - and it's not England was the sole
inheritor of the computer -
                                       that's what not having
diacritical accessories does to you...
                             you get hacked...
and this... pretty much... is a form of a hack:
you'll wake up tomorrow with a pair of sunglasses
or think you're looking down a microscope;
i swear to god...       me and Ivan are just laughing...
he's not drinking, i'm drinking, but we share
the same intuitive devices - the same puppet strings
pulled him in 1919 as they are pulling me in 2016...
the same ****** trials of a variation of zoology -
some look at monkey behaviour,
            others look at how language is cradled in people:
and i'm not even going to bother
elaborating on anything by Chomsky -
which brings me to the following conclusion
(back to Miranda) - i don't believe in fame apparent,
fame apparent, as in: tabloid crap and c.c.t.v.
and 20 nannies and 50 bathrooms, and not being
recognised wearing a virtual reality gear when walking
down a street when otherwise imprisoned on
a television screen rewind - that's not fame,
that's tyranny under the masses -
                         i don't believe in it... which answers
one famous English scientist's question:
why does posthumous fame exist?
                                    it's like that Camus question
about suicide - well... i guess it's a question of
endurance... a bit like a fail-safe mechanism about
why the pyramids are still standing even though
they experienced so much weathering by the elements -
well, as endurance has it: posthumous fame is
filled by introverts...
                                          i dare you to name that
famous Bolshoi ballet dancer, or that famous 1930s
actor or actress... they're part of the extrovert side of
what's called "fame" - but that's only a minor point
i wanted to make... the real zest i already explained -
ah crap, summary in maxim:
   the concept of modern fame is the result of a god
that has been attributed such qualities as omnipresence...
               well, aren't modern celebrities... a bit like that?
Continue reading...
Roger Turner - Poet Sep 2012
Can someone out there help me?
BRB, LOL
***, what the hell?
Can't today's kids learn to spell?
The things they write
I cannot tell
Has education
Gone to hell?
Can someone out there help me?

I can't read what they've written down
They're writing's really rotten
Penmanship's a basic skill
That most kids have forgotten

****, BRB
404 AND BBC
These don't mean a thing to me
Can someone out there help me?

Spellcheck is their holy grail
Without this app, most kids would fail
There'd be no words in tales they tell
Can someone out there help them?

I read a letter I received
The writing I could not believe
I've seen better on my sleeve
Can someone out there read this?

GFN, GFAP
FAQ, ASAP
Explain what I just wrote to me
Can someone out there help....please?
#help #lol #kids #humor #language #education #spell #**** #*** #brb
Continue reading...
Ganesha Michael Shapiro Nov 2017
fermented solipsists
did you buy all of this on credit
and can you do without
going to ceremonies for awhile
look what higher learning
and empty rituals have given you
a distrust for humanity
and all that's truly valuable
are you a nihilist or a solipsist
what a life to be so twisted
like an elliptical esophagus
so strange the way we spell things
what would we do without
spellcheck or a dictionary these days
is a thesaurus a dinosaur or a literary device
the swelling went down
right in time for your dialectical revival
while didactic strange attractors are strangely repellent
selective attackers leave your marriages despondent
disparaged orthodontists leave fluids on your face
still you wipe your chin with sandpaper
and leave greasy finger stains in their place
fluoride is a bargain complete with its own argument
and quite often batteries are not included
but that doesn’t mean you’ll never use them
for what's a *** toy to do
if its lacking its adjacent latex compartments
or if you're really just not in the mood
i guess this human body will have to do
grooving to the music is all about our choosing to
becoming outdated or faded like a tax evader
these equations are meaningless
when you are fermented with libations
if you drink more amber liquid would you be negated
relevant for a moment and then
just as quickly discarded as a piece of paper
the receipts we diligently saved
are just as well used to light your fireplaces
Continue reading...
illuminated-atmosphere Nov 2014
i love finding old ramblings
Why do you think you’re so weird all the time?  it’s nothing more than insecurity
not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to
you know that flaley
spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey
which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re
there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re
creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much
stop getting my ******* in a bunch
you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls
i like writing: i like
and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******* like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble
this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam
and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham
in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay
but only until the vyvanse wears off and
your **** jar is empty
and your cigarettes have been smoked
and all your klonopin has been digested
and your bank account is empty
and the only thing left to take out your self pity on
is this poetry

i like writing words like cigarettes
and rhyming them with causal **** like
regrets
i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place
i regret smoking all those cigarettes
*but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one
#society #cigarettes #vyvanse
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
apparently so...
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Continue reading...
MissNeona Sep 2014
Broken down robot girl
We started out being cheap,
but being impoverished eventually saved us...

It became a fad,
almost everything did.
Whoever had money,
would spend things to make themselves more connected to the singularity,
more tapped in.
We were all suffering from information addiction,
looking for our next fix.

Likes were a thing of the past,
we didn't just want digital affirmation anymore,
we needed to feel more powerful.

Of course this was just something we created in our mind because we saw others gaining this perceived 'power',
of course if you can,
in your mind,
research,
copy,
paste,
spellcheck
- everything a computer could do,
you would seem more capable of a human,

but in reality,
once you left your mind's energy up for just processing power,
you were nothing more than a machine...
some of us let our minds go entirely,
favouring searches and what is already known to fill in the blanks for our own exploratory research.

Mods weren't cheap.

But so many people were willing to pay for convenience.

- mods help us think,
they can schedule our lives.

- certain ones are just cognitive enhancers,
basically a microcomputer that knows which electrical impulses to fire in your brain for improved cognitive functions,
muscle controls or even releases of certain chemicals (serotonin)

- Others are just things like ocular mods (contact screens)

- Viruses are terrifying.

- New wave of humans who choose to be 'fed' - near braindead. Enabled to know made unknowing,
allowed to follow,
sometimes the struggle is necessary.

Reporter
main character either snaps back into reality or
overpower systems with willpower
she sees past the hiccups of self
and knows how to command the bots

break it down, robot girl,
make the demons dance for you,
Continue reading...
Lukas Dec 2014
feel
feel

I’ve forgotten how to

        My nerves are on fire but I
        don’t understand what it means

Do something
Give me

        Give me *anything

I need a way out
I need to feel

Pixels are shouting at me and

        I think I’m going deaf
        please help

I know who did what and when

        I know you
        I know your ups and downs and dreams and fears

I am the ultimate ******

        And so are you

And I don’t know how to
I don’t know how to stop

        Make it stop
        Give me anything

Something real
Something physical

        Give me pain
        needles and knives and back-alley mistakes

Rough brickwork bruising a back

        Is it my back? I
        can’t tell anymore give me more

Cement scraping skin from fat from muscle from bone

        What does marrow taste like?
        Google it

Blood pouring from eyes but
we’ve seen worse in CoD

        Give me more

Rip the bones from the flesh through a hole in the skin
Taste the inside of a tongue

        Let’s practice Frenching

I can’t tell anymore is this pain or
is it pleasure is it hunger or satiation

        Spellcheck

Is this death or is it euphoria

        *Why should I care
Not so sure about the "graphic" and "violent" tags, but better safe than sorry, I guess.
#pain #death #facebook #feeling #feel #violence #google #graphic
Continue reading...
Chloe Oct 2014
The Stained Glass Window
(If you knew this place as I know it)

I am not just me. I have never been just me. I am a patchwork of everything that has been done to me, and that has nothing to do with being just. I am not perfect because I have never experienced perfection, my life has never been picked through for the best footage. I’m bearing the weight of the dailies, every last one of them.

I am not a story. My body is not made of letters, no meticulous thought has gone into me, I have not been drafted and re-drafted until there are no spelling errors in my bones. That does not mean I cannot create stories. I may not be made of the things I write, but the pieces of the world around me are enough that I can give a little of myself to many while still being whole.

If you knew myself as I know me, you would hate it, too much, too little, unevenly and over-dramatically. I don’t know myself at all and too well, all at once.

If you knew this world as I know it, you would love it. Love it and hate it, hate it because it’s going and love it because you’re going with it. I will keep telling myself that different does not mean good or bad, but I’ll still miss picking a crimson leaf out of a stream of sunlight in the middle of snowy fall.

You would miss it. You would miss sleeping. You would miss not being scared. You would miss being able to love everyone. You would miss thinking that everyone was willing to love you. You would miss your friends being free and knowing what you wanted for Christmas and not worrying about being afraid to look in the mirror.

You would miss six feet of snow in November.

And you would love it. You would love knowing more, knowing better, knowing more clearly, more complexly, and more meaningfully. You would love knowing that spellcheck and calculators that do long division exist. You would love re-learning how to imagine the world, to question everything, to accept and believe, to understand a life that is not your own.

I am not just me. I have never been just me. I am not lonely. I am not alone.

(I'm sorry if I sometimes need reminding).
(Rough Draft)

This isn't even a poem, this isn't even edited, this is no where near my best work.

Oh well.

Prompt: If you knew this place as I know it...
Continue reading...
Redshift Feb 2013
unfortune etly
the fact that i can never spell
unfortunately right
never ceases to **** me off.

unfortunetly?
unfortuntely?

what ****** me off even more
is that spellcheck always thinks i'm trying to say
fortunetelling

...punk ***
Continue reading...
Breeze-Mist Feb 2017
Do You Remember
Dear Diary,

Do you remember
The little ten year old girl
Who wrote in that book

The girl who couldn't
Spell business without spellcheck
To save someone's life

The one who told you
About how she loved airports
So much she would fly

Who believed she could
Be a pilot, reporter,
and a researcher

The one who went on
For pages about mangroves
And the local reef

Who loved the world so
With all of its things to do
In such finite time

Who stood mesmerized
Over Miami's night lights
In a hotel room

The little girl who
Made an essay's outline in
Her polkadot book

The one who said she
Hated when her sister took
The hotel bed's sheets

The girl who dreamt of
Her eleventh birthday, so
She could be a witch

The one who knew that
She wasn't entirely
Regular or sane

Who wrote of her mom
Who threatened to burn you if
She kept on writing

Who wrote of her dad
And mom arguing in both
Private and public

Who was afraid of
"Inappropriate" things, since
Her parents said so

The one who told you
That she had no other friends
On her school's blacktop

The one who panicked
When she got less than eighty
For any test score

The one who knew she
Could never tell the grown-ups
Just how bad she felt

The one who vowed that
If MPs and psych wards came
She would kick and scream

Well I'm starting to
Because she was right here for
My entire life
I found my old diary from when I was ten years old. Seven years of learning, and "bisnuse" might still be my best manual spelling of that word yet.
#haiku #memories #childhood #diary
Continue reading...
Thomas clark Feb 2016
Pluviophile
I read your comments
I do agree
That you are you
And I am me

I don't tell fibs
My poems are true
I fell off a roof before
Have you ever fell too

Roofing is a dangerous job
As are some other jobs too
And I,d just got two words 4 the spellcheck
Thank you

I,m not as bright as others
As you already know by a mile
So I really got to ask you
What is a pluviophile??
Continue reading...
Sarah Feb 2015
No Shortcut
MEMORIES DON’T DELETE.
AND WORDS THAT YOU CAN’T BACKSPACE
RING AND RING AND RING.
THERE’S NO LOGOUT FOR RELATIONSHIPS.
THERE’S NO SPELLCHECK FOR MISTAKES.
AND NO OFF SWITCH FOR
MUSCLE MEMORY TO REPLAY
OVER AND OVER AND OVER.
THERE’S NO RECYCLING BIN
FOR THE AWFUL THINGS SAID.
THERE’S NO VOLUME CONTROL
FOR THE WORDS TO SCREAM AT YOU.
Continue reading...
John Stone Mar 2010
Oh.
I’d write you a love letter but the thing is
My printer is out of ink and my internet is down
plus my spellcheck is ****** up and I don’t want to
misplell anything.

I should get around to writing my congressman but the thing is
I doubt he even reads those letters and it would
be just too depressing to write to some
old, boring **** who doesn’t give a **** about me.
I get enough of that already.

I might try to write some more but the thing is
I don’t know what to write about and it won’t go anywhere and no one will read it and even if they do they won’t get it or maybe they will but seriously who the **** would put themselves through these asinine ramblings that don’t really mean anything but I think are important and

Oh

How long have you been standing there?
June-August 2009
Continue reading...
Tawanda Mulalu Aug 2015
free writing 1
finally came home from kgale hill and a weekend with my baby cousins and my head is throbbing throbbing throbbing heart is sobbing sobbing sobbing have i always wanted to become that good like all those big people or is this a recent thing i do not know i stare at peoples poetry like how the hell did you write this and not me and i even do it with big established dead people  like ts eliot who i used to spell like ts elliot until everyone kept correcting me including google chrome spellcheck
Continue reading...
miranda schooler Dec 2013
my grandmother asked me why i write sad poetry ....
there are days when my poems feel less like bruises
and more like crop circles waiting to spread their soft bones across
the earth of my page- these stories need to be told .
my voice used to be just a side effect of having a body ,
until it found paper and learned how to scream ,
the kind of scream that evaporates in all the noise .
i’d rather write about people who got lost in the cracks of my sidewalk -
so i can write about them clawing their way out -
than write about people who were born with every limb already above ground .
because sometimes every word is an act of therapy ,
and there’s no better listener than the reader who finds relief
in every oil spill of ink . because sad poetry is the truth ,
and i’m tired of biting my lip .
because the people i write for have been going through hell
and sometimes , if i spellcheck my words carefully enough ,
a line or two will flame brighter in that person’s heart
than the flames they’re so used to being burned alive in .
when i was a kid , i used to try mending the broken wings
of all the moths and butterflies that crossed my yard ,
until some of them gave up on flying with stitches ,
and i learned that sometimes people quit on life like that too .
so now i write all these poems to teach people
to start giving to themselves
instead of giving up or giving in .
Continue reading...
Krista DelleFemine Nov 2017
Saint Spellcheck
****** spell check
Policing my moral thought
I cannot comment "****,"
Without spell check insisting it must be "shot"
Sometimes I'd like to say ****
When I don't mean duck
Spell check should be aware
Some people like to swear
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
https://www.facebook.com/notes/matthew-*****/wheres-the-suit/00154115656049781
i’ll just get... nothing new where i’ve been aged 16 before the prom with a stretched ponytail aged 17 about 20kg lighter... what does it matter... it’s not like christ was crucified weighing in at 120kg on the cross.*

it’s in belgium; d’uh!
there’s an umbrella open in my house,
and there’s a rose blooming in autumn...
and there’s me with the catwalk brigade looking
at cats taking a stroll into individuality taking care
of not caring about fashionistas in **** khaki;
because like ****-smear mattered to originate
a sun-trail-tan of the sunrise libido of theory in unwelcome
art scorching into fashion of the tightened cancerous
grip with lard tanning to excuse -
well... originated from this, excuse my spellcheck.
Continue reading...
John Edward Smallshaw Nov 2017
When the weekend kicks in
One day 
you will find
that the infinite
is finite
and you'll realise
that you've been fed a line
of bullshite
all of your life.

Spellcheck is telling me
that
bullshite is not right,

spellcheck can kiss my ****.

I write it as I say it
and if I say it
then it's right it
has to be
or it's not me
writing it.
Continue reading...
Krista DelleFemine Jan 2018
Spellcheck
Shut
Ads
****
****
Per
****
Birch
****
Sick
****
(Wow...it lets me do **** and ****!)
Continue reading...
Just GS Jun 2019
A broken poet's heart to heart
Write me off, that's fine - if I'm honest, your eyes are not why I've bled blue on loose leaf for all these years.
I gave away a rough draft of my life and skipped the polish - yeah, I get that I'll never be published, and to you, my words likely look like incoherent ******* because I'd surely be full on illiterate if it wasn't for spellcheck & this stupid heart of mine.
My goal wasn't to be relatable (it was always for me so I could go back if and when I needed a reason to breathe I'd reread to see how far I've come) and so (I have no grand delusions of "success" or even dreams of recognition) I know I will never be a great writer -
A lonely man's truth has never been a valuable commodity.
I just wanted to let you know that I've seen your poetry & it's simply beautiful in all it's intricate complexities -
and mine is what it's always been (and bare with me now, as I attempt a metaphor) my ol' trusty lifejacket.
It just helps keep me from sinking all the way down to rockbottom.

Thank you all for sharing, I like to think I have a good idea what your words mean to you - and for some of us they might just mean everything.

And for now, I'll leave you with this


Dear Poet,
If you ever feel the urge to give up, just remember that if you do, everything you went through will have been for another man's (or woman's) kindling.
Continue reading...
Sillva Nov 2018
Letters To Juliet
There are phrases that I cannot explain when I speak to you.
Maybe it's  just a thought or maybe I've gone soft.
Like the clouds thinking its cotton candy, passed memories made  
shadows

Tears that
made Rain.

Roses I met indeed,
but let here rose peddles leading my scents to other messes.
My passion became no more an made the seas quiet.
Juliet WAS the name for all my lovers.
Juliet WAS only a costume to hide there names.
An empire I created with flirts
But it BURSTED -
out into flames
an became my worse nightmares
an my worst pains.
Trying to cover the sun with just a finger
Blindly out shined by it's own beauty.
A Mystery
Where misery has chased me,
An started to become Happy endings.
Errors paint my screen beneath the dark
Unworthy to ever press spellcheck.

Maybe is a curse of ur endless beauty
or has my eyes seen through  your purity.
A world of matters
Where I have dissolved my pasted.
To tell my thoughts that they have never forgotten you.
An say opportunities come rarely,  an let me be your overcoat when NightFalls.
            
                                    Sincerely
                                          Yours Truly
                                                    Romeo
#romeo #juliet #romeoandjuliet #love #fariytale #magic #firstlove
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James Mar 2019
message to my future kids
message to my future kids. don't try too hard. dont be smart people. ask questions. you're innocent. you don't deserve my ****. don't wear thin circle glasses. but you might have to. don't worry about money. if you can, don't fall for the wrong person. if you can't, i get it. write about sheep. think about suicide. but don't do it. if you do; i'll spellcheck the note. i always was a smart ****. don't do what i did. don't take my advise. listen to your mother. if she's an idiot, don't. i might not be around. don't hate me. it might be complicated.
#message #to #my #future #kids
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Pia V Apr 2021
I try really hard actually
You write your
                                             Poetry
                With
                                Stray
Indentations (affectations for added effect (redundancy for rhythm (alliteration just because)))
I write mine lik an asignmet due in 10 m,inutes. (Spellcheck almost killed the metaphor)
Your Cae-sur-a (The deliberate yield for words)
versus
My The-saur-us (The potent yield of words).
Verse vs. verse
the poet tries
poetries contrived.
#writing #poet #poetry
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Sonja Benskin Mesher Feb 2017
.. crumbs ..
she orders  a sonnet about modern           tech

nology , some         recent language            urban

slang.  wiki  & googling    helps while spellcheck

defeats nistakes .            publishing on blurb and







lulu. gifs  no issue.  focus                        on  taste.

.work.   memes are impossible to       pronounce.

denounce the pass it forward,            copy/ paste.

why write verse when   we can talk or   announce



loudly.. save in my cloud to edit                  share

. no rhyme no more.                         no elizabethan

manner.          we taps  it clear.        is with difficulty

keyboards sticky,                 some have no empathy



that I prefer old ways. yet                       computer

smart create in a more abstract                manner



©sbm
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CJ Sutherland Feb 11
Untitled Poems WHY
If you took the time
To contemplate a Rhythm
Pondering the story to share
Then why such little care
Untitled

Many ask the preverbal question today
Dose one make the title first than the poem?
Or The poem, than the title
What does it matter anyway!

Your title pulls the reader in
The hock, the draw, the spin

To Captures the reader,
Achievement even sweeter

Reader Stops and gives their full attention
Followed by comments, honorable mention

With successful title achieved
Many reviews will be received

Correction question requests
Is the proper use THEN or THAN for the comparison to poem and title
I list it one way and verbal speaking list it the other way, which is correct?
your thoughts, please
I believed THEN was time and THAN was comparison I am second-guessing, because when I speak into the audio, it give me a different response for that spelling. I am in a cast, with one hand,
so everything is speak and spellcheck.
Honestly I pass on untitled poems. When scrolling down a list of poems to read
it’s what grabs my eye ,my heart, my imagination
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the dirty poet Feb 2020
SUCCESS
texting “lawrence ferlinghetti” to a friend
the phone spellcheck took over
that’s how you know you made it
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