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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
July 15, 2016
undefined by crystallized-skies melds human and machine, utilizing programming language to connect emotion between reality and the confines of cyberspace.
Featured by brennennn
Suggested by JustACapharnaum
Literature Text
[---404 error: file not found---]
I am undefined like the irrational variables
that rot your computer;
never quite fitting into the neatly arranged arrays that fragment this world
into disconcerting
congregations of 1s and 0s,
(the DNA between
my ribs does not
conform to your primal
binary code.)
[—503 eror: server overload—]
I am undefined, an error in excess desperately trying to exit
this (in)finite loop of on-off signals that consistently crashes
my delicate newtork of
conscious concerns
every time I attempt to define
who I am. [---204 error: no content---]
I am undefined because the illogical statements that pour from your keyboard mouths insist that to be human I must be neatly assimilated into
your grotesque models
of homogeneity but the labels that you try to inscribe within my messy framework of what-ifs and void expressions simply does not compute
for { I am undefined I am undefined I AM UN DE FINED
I aM Un&D e f i—3--n e;;; d }
Literature
Story Time
Where honey bees blend into sunsets
They sit in a crooked circle
Writing non-love poems
Writing stories
Writing the lives of the living they never knew
As documents or poems or journal entries
Encoded with flavors only the pen knows
And curiously
They pass those words down the line
They read
They think
And pass the papers back, then begin again
With a new dream, speckled with what they know now
Like nascent freckles in the wrinkles of a sun-worn face.
Literature
cynical: arsenical
splinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e g r a t e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
self-abuse;
a god of
ru(i)n(n)ing
[away] &
no:
there is nothing holy about you
Literature
This is Irony
I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
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Yet another one from the archives. This was an experimental piece that was meant to accompany my poem caught. It's suppose to give a much more broad commentary of the idea of labels and how they can be at times both comforting and discomforting. I had never planned to submit this properly but after some lovely words from the beautiful a-girl-named-divine and a little bit of editing, it's finally seen the light of day. So enjoy! <3
© 2016 - 2024 crystallized-skies
Comments47
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Well done unique angle. I did, indeed, enjoy.
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