Interference
A Poetry Collection
TV
I thought the world was a plasma screen, composed of nameless pixels acting out a scene. The same overbaked plot always stared back at me, each flimsy cutout following my lead, each channel a mirror of our animal hopes and needs. I forgot to mention that files don?t know how to dream. So I wasted my plastic bottle years not knowing what station to tune in to, what way to steer. I frantically button mashed until the world?s foundation cracked, plunging the screen into a blanket sky of lonely black. I demanded perfection and received nothing more back. Color wilts when we dam our heart?s stream. For our emotions may be our bane, but they?re a mesmerizing borealis when painted on a screen. I learned that human vulnerability is what enchants true sunset reds and summer hike greens. It?s love that slathers colors onto the turbulent, swirling purple sea. And it?s desperation that trims the lace on seashell belly pinks. The world may be a repeat, a timeless entourage of a single show. But it?s beautiful that we all have the capacity to feel pain, and to grow. We may be just paper puppets living out our scene. But we all can boast of a leading role: it takes hundreds of thousands of pixels just to jigsaw a single screen.
Internet
You cannot grow an island
In a sea of one?s and o?s
The only hearts who breathe the flow
Are the timestamps of a ghost
There?s no timber to float your provisions
And no soul but you to row
Your lack of crew imprisoned you
Between the claws of text and smoke
You cannot feel the harbor
Past the fog of your own breath
The compass has long walked the plank
And the stars have swallowed death
You salivate to navigate
By a siren?s beguiling shrieks
She flags you down as you drown
And you grasp for the lies that you read
There?s nothing in the water
And nothing left to fear
The internet is your spider web
And will isolate you from all you hold dear
A Poetry Collection
TV
I thought the world was a plasma screen, composed of nameless pixels acting out a scene. The same overbaked plot always stared back at me, each flimsy cutout following my lead, each channel a mirror of our animal hopes and needs. I forgot to mention that files don?t know how to dream. So I wasted my plastic bottle years not knowing what station to tune in to, what way to steer. I frantically button mashed until the world?s foundation cracked, plunging the screen into a blanket sky of lonely black. I demanded perfection and received nothing more back. Color wilts when we dam our heart?s stream. For our emotions may be our bane, but they?re a mesmerizing borealis when painted on a screen. I learned that human vulnerability is what enchants true sunset reds and summer hike greens. It?s love that slathers colors onto the turbulent, swirling purple sea. And it?s desperation that trims the lace on seashell belly pinks. The world may be a repeat, a timeless entourage of a single show. But it?s beautiful that we all have the capacity to feel pain, and to grow. We may be just paper puppets living out our scene. But we all can boast of a leading role: it takes hundreds of thousands of pixels just to jigsaw a single screen.
Internet
You cannot grow an island
In a sea of one?s and o?s
The only hearts who breathe the flow
Are the timestamps of a ghost
There?s no timber to float your provisions
And no soul but you to row
Your lack of crew imprisoned you
Between the claws of text and smoke
You cannot feel the harbor
Past the fog of your own breath
The compass has long walked the plank
And the stars have swallowed death
You salivate to navigate
By a siren?s beguiling shrieks
She flags you down as you drown
And you grasp for the lies that you read
There?s nothing in the water
And nothing left to fear
The internet is your spider web
And will isolate you from all you hold dear
