The Dystopian Line-up

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The horrible crouching lonliness, like glass from all angles.

The alienation of humanity, and the empy despair.

The turning to stone, the losing of warmth.

The bitter cold worn for flesh, and the thawing of the soul.

The drying of constant tears, the heartless humanity in motion.

For love is abstract; a simple AI program.

It’s the, “Hi how are you?” over a text. Man converses with a machine.

The machine works. The machine enters sleep mode, and the machine works yet again.

Humanity only begins, when you want outside the line.

Copyrightcopyright January 1, 2019

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Mechanical Humanity

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The crouching loneliness.

For the heartbeats are just a wanting wanderer; nothing is ever satisfied.

There is no fairytale that mankind yearns to stride;

the cold war goes in and forms a frozen soul;

the machine disguised as human, is not;

and wanders the heart unknown ;

for love is but a robot, wanting to work;

and always striving for something;

the skin is but stone, the veins wires;

love just an AI, the name and last name our serial number;

the mind in wonder, is just an app in training;

flesh is just silicone mimicking the form;

There is no embrace made warm.

love is just an app that promises dreams;

the dreams are just code; there is no dream.

for mankind is but a machine, and there is never really a pulse;

in where one calls love, is just the imagination;

acting upon impulse–

Copyrightcopyright December 16, 2018

The Passing of Aretha Franklin means she’s in heaven awaiting us…

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I remember my grandmother passed this year. The last time I saw her, me, my dad, and my mom went over to New Jersey to see her. It was the last time we saw her together.

She was happy to see us, even though her movements were sluggish, she seemed fine to us.

She used to love to watch the western films.

She was able to look past any discrimination that may had been back in those real-time periods, and still enjoy the shows for the peace they brought her.

In where me being born in the 90s, around the era in where uprisings of the youth may have been a factor, she was able to discover the peace the young may not be able to comprehend.

And when my father told me a month later of her passing, it hurt.

My father is a brave, Christian man, who doesn’t drink, curse, and is real headstrong.

It hurts to see headstrong people weep.

 

But what I learned from the dying, and the passed, is that if your faith is strong, then it is realised that dying is not dead. Dead is simply resting. Like a machine being told they have to be put into sleep mode forever, the creation doesn’t want to be still.

But God is a God of Life, and God see’s Life as a reward, even in death.

Therefore He yearns to stay us away from living with tubes in us, and being kept alive with machines to delay the inevitable.

 

God took Aretha Franklin home, because He wanted her to be up there with the angels, and to be happy and enjoy life, the same way God did for my grandmother.

I would have loved to meet Aretha Franklin, and show her my poetry, I pictured us speaking in the media, or perhaps on The Wendy Williams Show, or a talk show, she would have been amazed of all I have accomplished.

 

Now she is made aware in heaven, as she looks down upon us.

When your faith is strong, you realize that the dead are just waiting for their return, while frolicking among the forests of angels in Elysium.

Robot’s Afterlife

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This foolish man’s endless cheer;

invisible to the living ears–

This old man’s quivering face, motionless to the watching eyes.

I saw a machine ponder life and death, on a tower smiled upon by angels

I saw a machine eating its own kind, underground–

I saw a machine full of love. On a tower smiled upon by angels.

And in the shadows in where light was left unharmed, and me in arms.

I was distracted by a flower, on a tower smiled upon by angels…

I became the wind on a tower smiled upon by angels–

And winds became life, surrounded by the winds of death-

Copyrightcopyright July 15, 2018

When its calm inside, a storm rages the surface…

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The storm outside. Its scary isn’t it?

Almost like fate. Sometimes fate can be a scary maiden.

Sometimes the only thing a child needs to be fearless, is destiny’s hand.

But destiny is formless, until seen. And sometimes we don’t see it, until we see it in another’s eyes.

The dying faint glow of logic, starts with the logic of understanding.

Sometimes not understanding, however, helps the drifter understand

even greater.

 

-Gregory Thomas

Hello on War and Poetry

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Hello. Gregory Thomas here, friends.

Is not the art of war, just Ballads for humans?

Was not the sound of listening alone the very concept of The Cold Wars?

Was not antebellum’s existence started on behalf of our mind and eyes?

Does not all of mankind wait on mankind?

Does it really suprise you that your eyes see what is around them?

Your mind is the most personal think you can have, and only your mind knows what your mind is thinking.

Your soul is caged by your own ribcage. Your blood is just drool, used for your body’s elixar.

Your eyelashes are just thorns, your chin is your body’s mountains.

But I ramble. What matters is that you hear the music through my words.

The words are the music, the mind is the canvas, your eyes are the window, and your voice can shatter all three of these things.

 

-From your friend, Gregory Thomas.

Elysium Mistress

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She is the laughter behind her own eyes, watching you die.

She sees you walk in the dying desert, and abandons you

she is the madness you place inside your head-

she, her face, and her eyes, sound and everything-

she is the invisible. She is the calling-

she is your lusts. Your love. You’re stumbling and your falling-

She sees you die, and you die right in front of her-

she is the golden ray of light from out of her own elysium-

and just like the mothership returns to the skies-

you are the lone spacemen, left to die-

for your dreams and schemes, are out of this world-

You. Abandoned by her.

And Her. Abandoned by you.

 

Copyrightcopyright March 9, 2018