Duplicity
Is there a person present beyond the plastic shell?
The AI generation exemplifies artificiality
The same plastic makeup that is prevalent in humans.
Are we people, or are we robots with artificial intelligence?
Devoid of real feeling and emotion, fixated on self.
While our fellow men waste away,
Their calls for support and help lay in vain.
We remain fixated on money, on gadgets on flimsy values
Hypnotised by material things, by disposable whatnots.
Gone are care, compassion, role modelling, and humanity.
Selfishness, greed and egoism have entered our lives
Truth be told, we are not moved or touched by anything!
The God-created human form and being
Sadly replaced by machine learning, by robotics by codes!
We are deaf, we are blind, we are retarded.
We live in a disposable world, a world destined to crumple.
We replace organs, goods, people and entertainment
By computer graphics, AI tools and 3D printing.
Are we using intelligence? Are we using our God-given brain?
Or do we mimic the robots, the AI Gods and the Handbook for Dummies?
One never knows, I guess, even this work may be from outer world.
The thing about killing Angels
you have to remember is always go for the kill shot
Most of them can easily take a grenade to the face
Those arch ones usually stay put and watch
Basically on tap with God
Seldomly they will make an appearance
Demons are tricky
Disguise themself basically animal vegetable mineral
One time my electric razor tried to bite a clump from my cheek, huh still makes me smile
He turned towards the boy
His crumple of a face
grimacing
The book boy learn it well
He turned hunched over
Bent and snatched the head from
the prone child at his feet
The sack boy open it
Without the head
We won’t be fed….
The boy pulling a single golden strand from his pocket
the strand warping reality around it
air forming the sack
Please
Just once
Not a three point shot…
Another 3 seconds he chide only infinity to go
At this rate we will be working long after the end
No rhyme or reason just jotting words down
could I put them together for a thought profound
Sometimes it all comes together
sometimes not
Read and read them over
nothing close to plot
Crumple the paper toss in the trash
think it over possible to rehash
Out of the trash smooth to read
wrinkled words mocking me
Then eureka how could I not see
just let them flow and speak to me
No rhyme or reason does it need to be
just random thoughts flow into poetry.
A crumpled thought
Unfolded
Asking questions
I felt their sting
“I came to you”
“you tossed me out”
“why will you not listen”
I watched it struggle
To un-crumple itself
Smooth its rejection
Stiffen its resolve.
My cold coffee
Took its side
Whispered from the cup
“you do that a lot”
“dismiss thought’s thoughts”
An oily film clung to my throat
As I sat
Pondering
A crumpled thought
you crumple to the ground
pain blossoms in your chest
like a poppie blooming
soon it will be the signal of your remembrance
for the color of its petals stains your shirt
you lie there
your vision fading into a haze of grey
your family flashes before your eyes
the last thing you see is them running
the last thing you hear is the cannon go off
boom
your vision fades to darkeness
your dead
you crumple to the ground
pain blossoms n your chest
like a flower in the spring
swaying in the wind
you fall
can't breath
a drowning flower dares to sing
pain is all you feel
winter is coming
you wither like a flower caught in the rain
"The beauty you see in me
--is a reflection of you" :-)
I want you to cut out
a paper heart, of any hue
Doesn't matter if you're a kid,
or went to NYU
This experiment doesn't use
markers, glitter, nor glue
Doesn't need perfect proportions
-- it's fine if it's askew
Now, go ahead and crumple it
into a ball (just do!)
Next, please open up and smooth out
the paper, through and through
Iron it, flatten in a book --
but whatever you do
There will be many remaining
creases within your view
These symbolize harmful words'
memories -- even if true
All the mean, blunt, biting thoughts
folks wish someone else knew
Our rash impulse to hurt peoples' feelings
-- we should subdue
The philosophy "hello human kindness!"
-- let's renew
Our own hearts are like a mirror
showing how others feel, too
[Sunday, April 28, 2024. Inspired by reading "Paper Heart" by Cat Patrick;
adapted to fit the "Mirror Poetry Contest" by Sara Kendrick; deadline 6/8/24]
If I were in school.
I would get my paper.
Crumpling, and tearing.
Compiling, and filing.
My room is covered in paper!
The paper is impatient.
I turn on the fan.
And the room becomes a fluttering mess.
I haven’t been in school in years.
But I still write and tear and crumple.
Even when the school bus passes by, without me.
And I’m still writing, alone.
I guess I’m writing for fun these days.
I guess that’s how we become poets…
With ideas like…
If I were in school.
If all your songs have not yet sang
And all your bells are not yet rang
And your footsteps did not make trails
It's not yet time to rip your sails
If all your winds did not yet blow
And all your lights did not yet glow
And there's a crumple on your sleeve
It's not yet time for you to leave
If your fires did not yet burn
And all your stones did not yet turn
And all your shades are crossed in stripes
The time to fade is not yet ripe
But when your cups are all in gold
And all your tricks have all been sold
And there's a rainbow in your sky
It is the time to say goodbye
8 syllables per line
Format: rhyming couplet
*This came to my mind the other day while feeding my goats. For my mother who is battling stage 3 breast cancer and for myself battling early stage of diabetes and onset of kidney and stomach diseases, confined on the mountains while finding herbal medication while doing online teaching job. And for all who are on the verge of losing their hope to live. Cheer up! The only time we die is when we stop breathing.*
I stare at the pristine white blank page
She intimidates me, I know she feels my fear
I am not the enemy I say
If you crumple me up, I will bite you, she says
I remember my last paper cut.
It was not fun.
I need to start typing
But fear holds me back.
Come on! My muse says. Don’t be a pussy!
I am intimidated by her too.
She can be demanding, commanding.
And crazy? A voice whisper in my ear.
Damn fear!
She is here in full force today.
‘I’m okay, you’re okay’ is a mask in the land of pretend.
Hide your face and how it twists into such an ugly thing,
How it wrinkles and fades into what none could call beauty.
Hide your skin and the odd colours that bloom beneath it
Like flowers.
You age like flowers do – beauty ebbing away as they crumple,
Ready to become dust again.
‘I’m okay, you’re okay’, you claim. Okay, but nothing better.
You have the odd ailment everyone suffers from, but you never see it portrayed,
It hurts until you realise that the most beautiful thing in life
Is finding beauty in places society cannot, or will not, or shall not.
Remove your mask, and be the first in this glossy magazine world,
In this world of models and secrets and plastic flowers
To cease pretending that you are not beautiful
When you have been all along.
On a morning stilled
an oak shadows the yard
as leaves wait to fall
but summer lingers
another day.
I write a love poem
to someone once met
at a blues bar
one summer during
college days,
but crumple it
put it in my pocket.
It was getting late
that night,
but when talking
with each other
we lost track
of time when we danced
and when in each others’
arms, the music played.
The skylight over the dance floor
captured the soft glow of the moon
as we got to know each other.
Her two-year old son
was at her mother’s house
where she was staying
when getting a divorce,
and I was looking
for my time and place.
But we were living
that moment
as if there was no tomorrow.
Her eyes glistened—
and in that moment of silence
I could feel her pain.
After the music played
I had to go home,
and she had to go back to her son—
the blues always said
dues must be paid.
But we dated
until jobs and distance
tore us apart.
Now I look
outside to see
shadows spread across the lawn.
The side street is broken—
all streets are broken
as I move place to place
and rain drops streak tears
down a clouded windowpane.
nobody sees you the way I do
in your wheelchair
with your unopenable arms
where everything crashes to a gray twisted landscape
my brother
alpha male
of demon strut clashes
in our shared childhood
once you flipped your hockey stick between my thin legs
to see how many stairs I'd tumble down
your yells to me to "toughen up"
cursing a younger brother
"bookworm sissy"
"vanilla boy"
to expletives that ran like tap water
when proximity was a contact sport
at the care home
to your lips
I spoon in pudding
its dull tranquility
vanilla
into a body that feels itself liquid, limbs pliable and porous
I'd like to re-touch our brotherly photos
to change them to accuracy
or crumple them like a wasp nest knocked to the ground
for nobody sees you the way I do
for nobody knows you the way I do
“Let the last rays of the setting sun shine serenity
on the last mile we traverse” – Quote by Poet
The emerald forest mesmerizingly so mystique,
spreads the shroud of surreal stillness unique.
The scented rippling breeze I embrace floating,
as it enthralls me with its cadence charming.
With the servile sense of absolute surrender,
through the serenading solitude I wander,
decipher the depth of the dense tranquility,
compose for the soul the music tuned to serenity.
The rays of the setting sun flush the calm canopy,
as I walk on the forest path meandering merrily
around the tilted roots of the twisted ancient trees,
the clumps of amber leaves rustle in the breeze.
My feet crumple them, make the departing melody,
as I saunter enchanted on my unfinished journey
to the hued horizon from the fascinating forest,
and find the abode of peace for the final rest.
A lonely traveler free from the attachment recess,
I am in search of the sanctum of sublime calmness.
Within the drizzling twilight colors I immerse awhile,
as on the time-track of life I traverse the last mile.
Creation, tablet, mouse all the necessary ingredients to work at a job,
either remotely or Face to Face on the job. Alphabetize files, and store
files in a vertical position either through the computer or on the premises.
This job could be short term or long term. Possessing a guitar, for work
or amusement, is a great talent.
In the event if you are fired from a Long-Term Job, you have a reliable
back-up system to work to earn a reliable living. The world can crumple
when variables in Life changes. Being fired from a long-term job is one
of them; Runaway!
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