My Future in Algorithms
I’m an awning-bound baby,
all denim and dopamine.
You’re sporting a cardigan,
and a knack for trigonometry.
I’m an awning-bound baby,
all denim and dopamine.
You’re sporting a cardigan,
and a knack for trigonometry.
by =CyneNoir
I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds’ teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly across fault-riddled skin-
they are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
by ~AllegoriaMalata
I picture myself sitting in my little antique apartment holding a bowl of oatmeal. I’m in my pajamas with my hair cascading everywhere, and the oatmeal has little pink strawberries in it. It’s November, and very cold, outside.
I hadn’t realized I was crying. I felt wet sliding down my neck in slimy, salty rivers before I noticed my vision was blurred and my throat was tight with reluctant sobs. I must look so ridiculous when I cry. I don’t even know why I’m sad.