Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Seema Dec 2017
I grind my teeth
Hearing the clicks
What are these cords?
Puzzling with all these words
It seems alienitic
They say I am hand picked
To use such things
No! not the ringtones
Take it away and leave me alone
Stop making me act like a clone
These machines make me crazy
My brains and bones growing hazy
They not mine not my own
How am I here in this time zone
It's suppose to be 500 B.C
And here I am sitting next to a P.C
Hail God! get me out of here
I fear my end, I fear I am nowhere
I'm getting insane, I am haunted by phobia
The trouble I get in, is through this techo gear
Year by year they send me here
To examine my head cause I am a lunatic
A crazy being over used brain, a phobiatic
No pain just systematically down insane
A shot and a dramatic labelled in vain
Technophobia was the tag
And again they let me out of this bag!


©sim
Fictional write.
jonchius Sep 2015
redefining awkward definiens
endorsing victorious evening
clamoring hawk-like intonations
conjecturing additional goals
optimizing ambient network
winning illinoisan night

trapping hacked-up events
warping æsthetic remnants
resuming inaudible overture
rallying auric-state net-work
defying anti-punk technophobia
eliminating cavalier homies!

minding icelandic anniversary
winging ersatz excuses
kicking ecstatic nerves
denying lackadaisical event
questioning upper echelons
brûlant en calice
the third week of June 2015 (cut short due to camping trip)
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2019
We now return
to your regularly scheduled dream.
Do the math: ducks in the pond
swim upstream to spawn supreme.

Then pay it forward
as a string of numbers.
Continuous in series,
strung out and unencumbered.

There's some **** saxophones
lifting off in tune to the rhythm method.
Save the soft jazz for when you're really in the mood,
and read a bedtime story instead.

Vision begins when the lids
are closed and threading the daisy chain.
This is where we
place the refrain:

Caution--unstable, but microwavable.

The lines blur
where the vertical and horizontal collide.
Can't stand the swimming in the head,
yet enjoy the peripheral ride.

Hypertext Transfer Protocol Secure,
even as far deep down as this chasmic seabed.
Living with technophobia,
But married to sensory overload instead.

Making new babies in safe mode.
We lose sight when plugged too long into this hub.
Just another anxiety in need of a pill
--join the club.

We meet where there's free Wi-Fi
so battery life doesn't drain.
This is where we
repeat the refrain:

Caution--unstable, but microwavable.

— The End —