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Samm Marie Jul 2016
1:12 PM, 21 March 2000 PST
-
11:08 PM, 17 July 2016 PST
My life thus far is not
Defined by my timestamps
I am the negative and positive space
That fills the void between my numbers
Some people are "numbers guys"
I, myself, am a "a-let's-see-what-the-hell-is-in-store-next girl"
So **** the timestamp
11:11 PM. 17 July 2016 PST
Julia Brennan Dec 2018
Why is it
that I
feel closest to you
when this
simple timestamp
appears before me?

Can you explain this digital phenomenon
that verifies your existence?

That you do
indeed
breath and eat and dream;
that radio silence
is
the most empty sound of all?

Why is it
that I
feel closest to you
when this
simple timestamp
appears before me?
A poem in "Draft" that I thought I'd share
Ashleigh Black Jul 2012
I’ve made it a routine now

to decide what I am willing

to free from my thoughts.

And I have told myself that

those things can no longer invade

my every days

because you see,

change happens

and change is good

especially when you decide to change

for the better

for yourself

so you can remember the dreams

you once had but lost

so you can find something else that

makes you feel alive in ways you’ve never felt

but I would like to make a point that

you should not forget the things or ones

who made you come to these conclusions.


Because you see,

they were your starting blocks

they helped shape you

they taught you about love

and creativity

and happiness

and peace

and acceptance

they helped to learn to enjoy the things that were in store for you

and you should never regret the experience, or wish it were back

or be mad at yourself or others for why they ended.

just be happy that you got those chances,

and that is something that you can never replace.


I’ve lived the past month

questioning my journey

and my choices

and wondering what would happen if I could just rewind

could I fix how I loved

or how I treated myself or others

how to not appreciate the opportunities I have

and the experiences I will remember forever?

And I became angry, and confused, and remorseful

because I am self-critical.

I believe myself to be the bearer of bad news

of pessimistic mentality

of the need to timestamp everything.


But today, I’ve had an epiphany.

I realized that I cannot regret the fact that

things fall apart

and things cannot be mended

and that you might never feel the way you used to

with someone or in someplace

but sometimes you shouldn’t want to

because you need to be open to new experiences

you need to be open to loving someone new

or to living a different kind of life

or to experience new people and places

and basically need to grow up

and realize that there is room for better

and you’ll experience many moments of better your whole life

and those moments in your past were that

they were good and better than what you’ve had before.

But it’s okay to move on. And be happy for what’s in store.

And that’s what I intend to do,

and currently I really am

trying.
I’ve finally had a breakthrough from writing angsty posts about regret and sorrow and depression and I’m through with doing that. I need to remember positivities and ignore anything less. If you would like to take a look at this rather long poem, please do. I’m quite excited for this. But for now, good night. **
The Misconstrued Apr 2017
For if I had to choose
I would choose to think you were a coward
A coward to up and run
Because I so badly want to believe in the notion called love
Something I have believed in for so long
But it begins to fade as I desperately try to grasp it
As fragments of it remain
I try to crush it in anger
I begin hating my ridiculous beliefs
I always said you saved me from myself
You just picked me up
I tripped over my notion of love
****** bruises and scars that will remain
As you just dust off and walk away
Time heals everything you say
I tear myself apart, ripping through the wounds
Punishing myself for my stupidity
Falling for the notion of love
This relationship but had a timestamp
You were just meant to be a refreshing chapter, I will convince myself
Because I am scared I might not believe in love again.
This was just word *****. Fragments of what was in my head. An attempt at pain bring translated into words on paper.
Mae May 2019
Topside and turned over,
rising yeast fills the skull with soft wheat.
The rabbit ran dripped in innocence,
mother sat in her chair,
ankles crossed and placed close to its wooden frame.
When the world spoke its truth, no, sang it,
all that pushed through to solidify her words were mused was a timestamp,
A personal account of all that time wasted.
Looking at this reminder of where you haven’t been,
the earth spat in your face
“Vivir y Dejar Vivir!”
But to live means to fight,
maybe not with fists,
words and money will suffice.
As the rabbit ran,
her hands grew sharp,
maybe the time clock stopped,
mother licked her lips
snatched the hare up and said,
"Yes, sure,
born into a life of deceit,
can you see your defeat?"
Plucking meat from her teeth in her cherished, chair seat.
Reflecting on growing up and the unsavory truths it brings.
Kyle Kulseth May 2015
Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
With a timestamp expired under looming storms.
The bleeding Spring never leaves
the rainy shores,
When I only wanna
                         live in the Autumn
of two-thousand-and-twelve--
in the days and the hours
before my guts soured.
when my hollow heart leaked down
                          shaking legs
                   into small town streets
                   and I forgot myself.

In the dregs of my doubts.
In the bouts of a cowardly man
                                unqualified
to carry your baggage
                         from the airport in Billings
to the bottom of my parents' stairs.

You stared hard that night
through the North Dakota Winter
and suburban blight.
November air
chilled my lungs and my breathing stopped.

In my Lillingtons hoodie,
I stood sad and shivering
and watched you drive away
through an assaulting army of falling snowflakes.
                            the last words
                  that you'd say to me were--
the last words that you'd say to me were

"I hope you're happy, you stupid scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

"I hope you're happy, you ******* scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

Fell asleep in a glass and I woke up here.
Fell asleep by myself and I woke up here.
Starlight May 2019
when the timestamp on your watch is
3:33
and for a split second
god shines down
from splintered heavens
and the breath that is silent
expands in my lungs
like a million sighs
like an enlarging balloon
racing to the explosion
I see the rapture in my digitalised smile
the bleeping raises to the crescendo
I feel the robot veins
I feel the steady hands
holding wrists
like ropes writ ready

god smiles like an enlarging balloon
hot and heavy
with bountiful love

but the timestamp flickers
from its devilish perfection
3:33
off the edge
cleaved down in a cliff face
I race on the blade of it
the seconds of sanctimonious breathing
coming to a stop

3:34
Physical cash transactions are final
  But in the digital world non-reversible
      Transactions have not been possible
        Since financial institutions cannot avoid
            Mediating disputes which prevent finality
              The cost of mediation slows enterprise
                  And makes trade and finance complex
                    Therefore
                  We need an electronic payment system
              Based on cryptographic proof, not trust
            Allowing any two parties to transact directly
        With irreversible transactions based on a
      Distributed timestamp server to generate
  Proof of the chronology of the transactions
And thus finality. The solution is Bitcoin
You can see this poem on a background here - https://www.bitcoinpoems.pro/delivery041Finality.html
Nick M Nov 2014
my hatred of hypocrisy, is a strong one
yet I manage to accomplish being one
I said suicide is stupid, maybe I just didn't understand
because finding happiness now, is hard like contraband
and I always complain about everything being a paradox
but right now it couldn't be any more evident
masking the lines in between whether I want to live or die
and for some reason I don't want to live, and I don't want to die
I just want to forget all of this anxiety and build up depression
from moving away from where I was truly happy and my friends
and now I'm stuck in a place where I can't be myself
and that's all I want to be so I am a breathing cry for help
and my poetry, the words and my movies help me getaway
but I'm scared I'll do something stupid if those words don't help me
those realms where I don't have to think about me but instead bleed my emotions until they help me create these words I type to whomever is listening because for some reason I feel like whoever you are, can understand me because it's so hard and last time I tried talking to someone close about this they ran away, or they lied to me because they were scared I'd actually do it

words are power
but I am powerless over the actions I perform whether it's yelling
or wanting to just sink deep into the water
I feel like I have no control over my actions
but I do, it's just built up anger and sadness that eats me away
and these people tell me "your life isn't even bad"
and I have nothing to say in reply
because maybe it isn't
they say "you always got whatever you wanted"
and maybe I was spoiled as a kid, I was an only child
but if I got whatever I wanted, I'd still have people worrying about me,
being there for me and most of all just being happy
and they also tell me my expectations are too high
so I try to lower them, to the point where they're almost non existent
but when I look at that timestamp with you knowing I'm not having a good time and two hours have passed since you've replied and I see you post something in the mean time and I just want you to be happy and be with you but a relationship where only one person can be happy is not a relationship

I want to indulge in my selfishness because I've sacrificed plenty enough for the happiness of my peers and in return I get nothing but a pit of sorrow and broken dreams because I'm stuck in a small town with barely anybody to help me swim through this trench I'm stuck in
nihiliti Jun 2018
guilty guillotine
cut the cordiality
decapitate my capital
bereft of debt but dead

sins cashed out
at the redoubt
the readout states
he served the state medium-well
high stakes games
never play out
prime timely

passed the ball before his
(half)time trials in the hall
of Hades' heroes
trophy case cages commemorative
accompanying accommodations
on company A's dime
dyed (c)ammo/comedy gold

commies died in red tape
holding back third wave
tsunamis made by little boys
and fat cats in league
of farms with the pigs
beating b(l)ack the blue
in the faces of pro-testing
human lives in danger of
aborting the right to ask
who's right?

do not collect/make cents/money ☞

unmarked graves
poor marks/low grade
explosive yields in fields of
gilded grain against woods
buying forests by the tree
swaying serenely, at peace
like only broken bodies can be
felled for freedom from failed
harvests, too costly
inflating lives now worthless

revolutionary's revolting; reminding readers
read the red print
for Jesus wept
'cause Lazarus died again
and this timestamp
demarcates the end
of resurrected american dreams
democracy demands your undecapitated capitulation

live free™ or die
"United we'll fail, divided we'll fall / We're ******, but you're making it worse"
a mcvicar Jun 2019
vulnerable naked goddess, my one and only temptress
the reflection of insecurity inspires the reflection of you in me
she turns the love ballad into a ****** message (and then it's again reversed)
it flows out of my aura like your odd ***** northern ways  
forever has been trampled one too many times
the timestamp on this union withstands the heated rendezvous of a million grandkids buried in the desert sands    
she'd just feel so lost without you  
(let's never go out of style)
Shayla Ahrns Jun 2018
It goes back and forth
Like tides
I’m low, I’m high
You could drown in me
You could wade in me

I’ve been waiting for you, drowning
In the old love, in the new love
Soaking up the hope
Hoping that this will all pass
Like you did, quickly
In my life, out of my life
Fading so fast, sinking

Timestamp my heart, I said
I never want to forget any of this
Shake me up like a Polaroid
So I can look back tomorrow
And forever after

And know that I never sank into you
I never let the hurt
Swallow me whole
BP Fallen Jan 2020
TreeTops alkaline radio
Timestamp ● AM transport
Bukowski, Bellows
Rather than you !

An estimation
of salvation (salvage)
From the ****** of crows
that bark in my general direction

I'm gliding through the mess of you...
Part of the promise my love
when you have gave me your hands a new
I love you too much to let the other one go

Rebooting a life
with the kindnesses
you so richly
deserve

amongst the alkaline radio
Ken Pepiton Feb 5
minutes wasted watching new persuasions
souring convincing arguments, rhetorical
contestants pitching sound bites and blurbs…

Earthian watchers sit quiet.
World stage, all accept any role.
All expect daily bread and easy tests.

Thinking if all those actively opposing using
clear common good sense, no bogus science
the use
of exectutive authority locally, we
are using believe as the verb, action
here, at once, we in an agreeform
that makes beliefs facts…

zoom out, take and look, take and use
colloquial subconscientific
impression, Earth whole,
a very costly photo
taken as free,
you see
granted us all under constant instituted
biological functionality and usefulness laws,
ethical stores of mores and lesses held true
where by weights and measures are kept,
sacrosanct things we believe we see
SETI code exemption nodes,
brains born
with Shelly Berman humor
moral insensitivities equivalency cert

"Spinach, right there, on your bicuspid."

Arbitrary decision
possibility never considered,
then we all laughed if off, now look

what are your private default mode cycles
doing while you wonder if this
is a waste of some better mind,
used to be imaginable as ours, we form

information known shown worth,
no time is lost time sought for,
all time is used in reflecting

get it, general value open market,
init
----------------------------------- got a second?

So, reader, there is an off ramp,
about twice the price as getting off
here… but it ends with these lines,
as in these days we do magic in lines
bright or dark, novel times, no denoument, nous
curio uses. … ever as we live and breathe

and think, this is a good thing to do do today.


Watcher, what of the night?
- same most days
All is peace as yet the night
is half a day away, or more,
as all our days are minutes more
each morning earlier
each evening later,
this time of year
cold dark night winds, wet with dew
sweat dried from working class few
who continue duty as background

custodians, ever holding imbedded
motion picture emotional reminders,

Kit Carson, childhood role model--

bind these phylacteries between
figurative eyes literally blinded
by eye service attesting right use

of holy gnosis as old as first known
towb
beauty, seen, even in mind, alone,
beauty is reason enough to go on,
ra'
make more beauty, as peace, felt
sense, scent as from blossums
in Canyon de Chelly

- evoke tears, the scent
- knowledge of beauty
- and adversity, so more alive
- than knowledge of good and evil…

peach blossums, sum of all fears, evoked
memory banks for war stores, whys

Kit Carson, childhood role model--
-- he burned the ancient peaches now
    he has streets named after him reminding

old mourning grieving broken spirits wailing
at the memory
from the blossums
on a breeze
used,
to leave be gone, days unbeknownst
worths
sought to revalue
uses
of all lost time ever sought
lost wills and tested mental umph or oomph,

try and try and try again, if once
you know you have
seen it done, you have
known the value placed once

on a dime, imagined, designed, curiously,
as magic as mythos allows allusions to,
without the mythos
behind the artists logic,
the worth, the weight
of a symbol conveyed,

"Whose image and superscription is this?"

My dime's a magic Rockefeller dime.
Family heirloom
in a local once

1916 Silver Dime
Liberty, the spirit's image
for art's sake, what's that thought
causal agency granted symbolic worth,
free to wonder if it does make sense
when one of my kind,
grows old and unproductive,
a useless thinker, thinking next
common value worth estimation offered
puts it in scale, one nine billionth, times you
adding a step, on from off, but stepping on,
not instep, onstep one,
we in step reformed
a higher perspective, the edge is farther,

the bottom is, too.

Look at us, thinking.

Look at us remembering seeing Earth,

the lifeship storing all life's reasons,
in one system of time and gravity

free, no
fee for knowing, pay me, sahib, I say
fi phi spinning an attempt at peace
foes call impossible, no place
in space and time, for such
a mind as we may imagine
a ****** stupid reason for war,
called for, to confirm certain core

teachings etched into heart tables
during long hours in prayer and fasting,

all nighters coding concepts into precepts.

Morning,
Sunshine,
Sing it Donovan, Ai
my life in Southern California,
easy on so many levels, each step
consciously aware for the first time
in my slightly luckier life than average
I know februarius mensis means
"month of purification,"
- spring cleaning chore install
must have made some social sense,
as lent is said to in High Church Circles.

As the hermit with the mind of Christ,
and the abiding promises as truth's used

to make the peace I abide within, stretched
freely in all directions
from a made up point, once,
my story starts from, daily,
and so on, spanning decades, in leaps,
saccades, laughing good medicine,

good mokus, bon chance, lucidity
preventing stumbling, smooth

operator, tumbling concentration, delving

deep into mind as defined, discerned, sorted

shall we say, mind is the medium in which words
work, we say mind me, and we, polymental poets

perceive our training draining virtues from us,
during precept to perception recogitations, we

receive our self exception, you be you, me, me.

We, be this third mind in the bubble, not mine,
nor thine but ours, and ours alone,

nothing in here but us, boss

ain't nowhere to be found, go look 'round.

We perceive access
to more information indexed
using persistent Y2K hardened information timestamp
metadata cross coded
with GPS and wind mapping,

alrighty, then. Cohere.

The Jim Carrey ringtone, signifying Dadaist style
cost to get it,

probably a joke. Medicine.

Fixative for flakey excrement used to plaster cells
in an Irish prison I saw documented, once.

I----------------------------
in the novel, it is Roosevelt on the dime.

but, not on the ones used to improve
the historical face of John D. Rockefeller,

genuine business school role model,
with entire character development courses,
generating Masters Theses every three minutes,
vertical supply chain lobster stacking driven
one-up-manship, longer vessles wille
zur Machts, navel prognosis,
floating point level like
Bucky on my brain,
reset
Classified conformation confirming faith
con-science, with acknowledged uses now
reasoning inquiry
into the most subtil query old men pose

Why at all, why anything, unless

big reality holds all the others accountible,

what is the meaning of this, is any curio aware

watcher, old and good for nothing, just
filling a role, NPC, looks like a lot of people,

invisible, mostly, after 75.

These we use to keep the peace,
easy gig.

I imagine joy
on a warm February day
is and
is timeless, instances one may say,
should all my days be like this one
as well as being as this was, like no other.

In the little things, you always notice
that you noticed,

but always after, ever, once begun,

its difficult to weigh time in days.

Try this, common internet English, is
a current lingua Franca, however,
there are tricks letters use, coughing like
gh. Ghost double letter effecting F sounds,
ghucking phine clean speech minds, niggardly
"sordidly parsimonious, stingy," 1560s
breadth
of bubble diametrics holders
on certain long
out grown paradigms,
old slide shows
from the potter's house,
revivals of old magic lanterns interpreting
shard recitations from broken vessles offered

for shame, for blame, for being told to believe,

I was born in sin
and shaped in iniquity, and only ever met Voltaire,
in words he said he might not agree with,
while being dead, while he was alive,

he invited me to converse with him, in story,
as any may imagine all are authorized to make up,

as any worker with colors paints impressions
abstracted with a will to make the joy or dread,

bright or dark, novel times, no denoument,
nous
curio uses. … ever as we live and breathe

and think, this is a good thing to do do today.
Practicing the art of time redemption using usually idle words. Bent backwards most click, ai a why they say such a thing... to make a body wonder
(finaldraftREALtrashversion.txt)

open
letterdraft13: i wasn’t supposed to feel this much
// open file: confession.txt
// modified: too many times

i loved you [ ]
  and by loved i mean studied.
  and by studied i mean starved.
  and by starved i mean
  i said “i’m not hungry” with your name in my throat.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl in a bookstore touching the spines
  like maybe one of them will understand.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl standing in the moonlight,
  asking the low-flying planes if she’s forgivable.

EXPORT FEELING:
  named it something soft
  so no one would notice it burned.

he said “i don’t want to hurt you”
  which is what men say
  right before they hurt you
  with clean hands.

CTRL + ALT + DELETE
  but nothing closes—
  especially not the part
  that keeps writing poems in his grammar.

[SYSTEM ERROR: too many metaphors. Simplify?]

i called it love.  
he called it bad timing.

INSERT PASSWORD:
  seeme

ACCESS GRANTED.

NEW NOTE:
  i forgive you in lowercase.
  you don’t deserve the shift key.

open file: ruinmefinaldraft.txt  
last saved: 2:41am  
user: girl
whoknowsbetter  
status: still writing about him / (pathetic)  
attachment: none (maybe that’s the point)

INPUT: I’m fine  
OUTPUT: [you don't sound like it]

cpu temp: 100.4°F  
(she's burning again)

I bit my nails and tasted April.

biometrics: unstable  
heartbeat: typing...  
eyes: exit-wound wide, still scanning  
mouth: unsent, but spelling it with teeth  
spine: error 504  

/ BIOS update failed  
// scroll depth: dangerous  
// dopamine loop: infinite

poetry drafts: full  
dignity: low  
engagement: medium

attachments:
- crying.wav  
- voice04833.m4a (unsent)  
- screenshot
whiplash02.png  
- idontbelieveyou
draftfinalFINAL.txt

NEW GOOGLE DOC:  
  title: every version of me you didn’t love  
  sharing permissions: view only  
  editing access: revoked

collaborators:
- me (12am), me (3am), me pretending I don’t care  
- girlboss, gaslight, ghost  
- nobody asked, everyone noticed, Taylor Swift  

[CORRUPTED TEXT]  
  she said she was over it [DATA INCOMPLETE]  

attachment: none (unless you count the damage)

[404: identity not found]

everyone says i look good  
no one asks if i’m still here  
the scale goes down  
the poems get louder  
the body forgets how to stay

[repetition detected: again, again, again, again]

click to translate: desperation

plaintext:
  you’re not even that important  
  but i keep talking like you’re holy  
  what do you do with love  
  when no one wants to hold it?

click here to reveal what she meant (no one ever did)

>>> meanwhile: her stomach hurts for no reason again.

reminder: no one asked.

crash log: 3:14am, again

system flag:
  are you sure you want to feel this much?  
  [no] [too late]

[user breakdown detected]  
  INSERT MESSAGE: “i’m sorry for my part.”  
  STATUS: unacknowledged  
  TIMESTAMP: one year ago  
  attachment: olive_branch.png  

recovery mode engaged (no progress)

autosave: corrupted  
exported: only the parts that hurt

I googled "am I spiraling"  
and then took the quiz twice.

cloud access: denied  
  her incision itched—  
  but not as much as the silence.  
  the body healed.  
  the meaning didn’t.

when she stands up too fast and sees stars,  
she names them after him.

draft saved: yes  
sent: no  
read: no  
felt: yes  
ruined: absolutely

I’ve written forty-seven poems that almost said it right.

trash folder: full  
memory: still running  
love: running in background (not responding)

[DATA COLLISION]  
  she realized she never even asked for this  
  she just tried to make it mean something

CTRL + ALT + ME  
(force quit)  

> everything backed up  
> nothing backed down  
> terminal still open

— The End —