It is said that all men are created equal. But you're not man. You're not equal.
You are not human.
You are a code.
You are comprised of numerous strings of subcode: your bank account, Social Security, driver's license, credit cards, telephone number, email address, VIN number, social media URLs.
Lines upon lines of alphanumeric/symbolic code are interwoven throughout the Net and reality to form a comprehensive image to the outside observer of who you are and what you do. Each serving its specific function of reflecting an aspect of your persona to any who look.
Your personality, lifestyle, trends, habits, secrets, necessities, desires:
I tried to leave footprints in the sands of time,
But the Ocean of the Ages came.
Like a God would do to failed creations,
The waters wiped my footprints away...
I tried to make a mark in the sands of time,
Yet the Ocean wiped it clean in no time
Like some laborious maid, surveying the scene
And scrubbing away all marks of mine...
I tried to write my name in the sands of time,
But the Ocean came once again.
Like an eraser to words, this editor of the ages
Erased my marks, leaving all blank and clean...
I tried to place a monument on the sands of time,
And the Ocean swept down on it.
Like some ageless architect to a failed piece
it's astonishing to know
that the people positioned on this planet
take Words for granted, as if They had no value.
this injustice I must protest.
never underestimate
the absolute power
of the miniscule
Word.
Words pierce the skin, cut deep to the bone
and bring the strongest of us to their knees.
even the man of steel, in all his glory
was at the mercy of ink and paper.
empires have crumbled under the weight Words carry.
while armies and governments do damage,
it was the simple Writing on the wall
that was the cause of babylon's fall.
a string of Words brings a string of violence
but
Why must poetry
Be beautiful?
Be sad?
Be deep?
Must it always
Have morals
For one
To reap?
We search for hidden meaning
In each line of poetry
In each word of poetry
As if it were treasure
Hidden by the pirates of literature
For us to seek out
And claim for our own.
We look to poetry
As a source of beauty
As we look towards a flower
Standing tall, petals tipped open
As if wanting to embrace the sun and the sky,
Colours gleaming in the light
For our viewing pleasure.
We seek out emotion
In poetry
As if we are emotionless ourselves
And searching for replacements.
As if we were empty shells of man and woman,
Using poet
Flake
by flake
by flake
Falling
falling
falling.
They dance around the air
Like children of the skies.
The wind is their playground today.
Dance, little children, dance.
Flake
by flake
by flake
Falling
falling
falling.
Tumbling, head over heels
Like miniscule, cloud-borne gymnasts.
The air is their gym set this morn'.
Tumble on, little gymnast.
Flake
by flake
by flake
Falling
falling
...
Where has everybody gone?
Were they not just here beside me?
I was sitting, sitting on the green bench
on the streetside corner (right next to that lovely park),
waiting for the bus to come.
The little old lady with the black lace and the white hair was
snoooring and
snoooring beside me
waiting for the bus to come.
I look down the long and narrow street
With the bustling cars and the busy people.
And
then
POOF!
Where'd the little old lady go? The little old lady
With the black lace
and the white hair
Snoooring and snoooring beside me.
Hm. Odd.
Ah, here comes the bus.
And there it
Have you ever taken the time
to view the stars?
To us, they are but pinpoints in a vastness,
much like humans on Earth,
from the perspective of those above.
But to the stars, they are more.
Massive orbs of energy
hovering in the black.
Picture the dynamism of the star
moving within itself, as we do.
Untouched by the wind,
unmarred by the things of this planet.
Are they marred by their own society?
Does the star live as we do?
They sit up there, seemingly
side by side,
like some celestial social assemblage,
much like us.
A group of glowing spheres here,
separated from that crowd
over there.
They don't talk much anymore.
My mind is set ablaze
by thoughts laid out before me.
Decisions old and new
ignite like torches in my head.
I am the man of fire.
This scorching land is my domain.
Why do I not feel that I hold power,
and the power lies with the flame?
Do I drown the blaze
before it grows to a towering inferno?
Or shall the flames wash over me
and drown me instead?
I am the man of fire,
consumed by musings in my head,
lit like candles before me.
The burning intensifies.
Let the fire rain down,
thoughts anachronous and new.
All bright and hot the same,
searing away at me.
I am the man of fire,
and the fire is my own.
I am the furnace from
What can be said about love
that has not been said before?
You are never telling someone how you truly feel,
but instead relate the words
of another person
from another time
that seem to match up for you.
It is better to remain silent
To lock eyes with the one
for whom your heart
races to the point of collapse,
to gaze upon that one soul whose
very breath tells you of their
undying devotion to all that is you
and simply gaze on.
Silence is the loudest communicator.
Silence tells just how you feel,
louder than words, louder than actions.
Silence is loud.
For when you simply gaze upon
your love,
your soul
"She is not dead, but sleepeth"
reads the faded words of time
engraved deep in the upturned face
of the grave of Sallie E. Johnson.
Sallie J, wife and daughter, but nothing more.
A life so short and sweet,
squeezed into eighteen simple words.
A poem, in memoriam, scuffed away
by Father Time's shoe heels,
washed away by the tears of the sky.
Not much to be said
about ol' Sallie J.
Was it because the life she lived was
short,
or because she didn't live her short life enough?
(Perhaps she could have used a bettre representative--Who you are's all about PR)
Whatever reason, not much to be said
about ol' Sallie J,
who lived but
Gazing downward
upon the people
going about their daily lives
Living freely
Moving freely
All this captured in my eyes
I am the bringer of light
of knowledge
of hope
of dreams
I have made us
who we are
I have built us
to this day
And for this gift
I must remain
tethered
unmoving
unspeaking
despite what I have given
stationary
for eternity
bound by ties I cannot
break
bound for doing what I believed
right
No worthier price could I pay.
Why must poetry
Be beautiful?
Be sad?
Be deep?
Must it always
Have morals
For one
To reap?
We search for hidden meaning
In each line of poetry
In each word of poetry
As if it were treasure
Hidden by the pirates of literature
For us to seek out
And claim for our own.
We look to poetry
As a source of beauty
As we look towards a flower
Standing tall, petals tipped open
As if wanting to embrace the sun and the sky,
Colours gleaming in the light
For our viewing pleasure.
We seek out emotion
In poetry
As if we are emotionless ourselves
And searching for replacements.
As if we were empty shells of man and woman,
Using poet
Current Residence: I am everywhere at once. Favourite genre of music: The electronic genre as a whole Favourite photographer: Signalbox, alexiuss and lawra, from dA. Favourite style of art: Soviet and German Expressionism Operating System: Windows 7 MP3 player of choice: I finally gave in to the iPod nation, and it works for me. Shell of choice: Shell Beach Skin of choice: My skin has worked for me for the past some-odd years. Let's go with that one. Personal Quote: Poetry's an ocean: it doesn't always move, so catch the right waves when they come
Favourite Visual Artist
M.C. Escher. On dA, alexiuss
Favourite Movies
Equilibrium.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
VNV Nation.
Favourite Writers
Gibson, Gaiman, and Rob Thurman
Favourite Games
Pirate-Ninja-Cowboy
Favourite Gaming Platform
Preferably one that is level so I don't slide when I stand on it.
Tools of the Trade
Life is my tool of the trade. Without it, what good is anything else?
Other Interests
Many things interest me. Present me with something.
Today I celebrate Ray Bradbury, the man whose works shaped the way I think and read.
Who gave me pause to wonder of life on other worlds.
Who made me understand the consequences of actions, no matter how small they may seem.
Who helped me to join man and machine together as one.
Who shook me to my core and lifted me up again.
Who taught me that, no matter how much is destroyed or repressed, mankind will never lose its yearning desire for knowledge and imagination.
Godspeed, good sir. You have left a lasting mark on this one individual, if not the world itself.
I no longer really use deviantArt, but I've elected to release all of my work from "storage" again.
I've been plagiarized since my original decision to lock everything up, but (to put it eloquently) fuck it.
I shouldn't let people stealing my work keep it from seeing the light of day.