Poem: “Filter Bubble”

filter-bubble

Remote loss of control.

I wrote this at like midnight yesterday and barely edited it, so it’s pretty much stream-of-consciousness. In other words, I don’t really care if it’s “good” or not–but hopefully you get the character and scenario I was going for!  After all, there’s someone like this in all of us; I’m just hoping more than ever now we haven’t reached the day when it’ll finally catch up to us.

Filter Bubble

I

close my blinds, but keep

the TV plugged in—Blu-Ray, DVD, and a whole shelf

of everything else nothing.

 

I want

eyes wide

to constructed conflicts, fixed

in a box and hours.

Lock the door, click-chunk.

Internet on, just for antisocial media.

 

I want the

recycled-wrapper packaging of processed pastries

and dried fruit firmly in my mouth.

Rations made with passion, the blurred

line between food and feed toed

in a bottle or bowl.

Enough to last all is just good sense.

 

I want the end

to this book, this game, this song.

Dominos of closure, set up back

when war was a faint feint

and clean freedom a wistful given.

The ceiling holds

so many speckles, spectacles to study,

and it isn’t chipping yet.

 

I want the end of

squabbling, coddling, empty group photos

and meaningless memes.

I never had much use

for those streets anyway.

Never walked barefoot in that public grass,

sung from the spire of those tired-brick buildings.

Nothing ventured, everything gained.

 

I want the end of the

things that want it so bad.

Everyone divides, holds heads high, and then denies

they’ve become what they budded from.

Sometimes I feel

like I’m the only one who knows this

has all happened before,

and then sometimes I feel like an adult.

Now I feel an armchair, a growing glare

from behind tight drapes.

The sirens rise, and I

put on my headphones.

I can feel it in my bones, but every other sense

is senseless.

So out I tune, as I always have,

oblivious to the lunatics’ plan

to make the common keen and call

for undeserved rulers’ fall.

 

I want the end of the world

to be a surprise.

If I don’t hear it, no-one dies.

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“You Won’t Read This” (Poem)

Wait... is that a baseball diamond back there?

Wait… is that a baseball diamond back there?

Well, it’s been a time since I shared some poetry on here — what with law school and all — but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing it. It took gradual progress and drafting, but I started and finished this one after only a month or so into the winter semester! It sat on my hard drive for a while, passed around among friends, but I decided I should share it on here.

It’s about college, and part-time jobs, and literary journals. It’s about paranoia, and privilege, and not being totally sure who or what you want to spend life doing. It’s about girls — a million, or three, or maybe just one. It’s about videogames, the internet, and wishing you could talk with music and intense colors instead of text messaging and social cues.

Ironically, the poem “functions” best the fewer people read it — and yet, of course, I love to share my work and get feedback. So I hope you don’t take the title to heart too strongly when I say…

You Won’t Read This

– – –

This particular piece felt like a leap for me at first, but in retrospect it was a pretty logical progression. During and after writing a “literary self-portrait” in English last year, “An Easier Way to Get Out of Our Little Heads,” I realized how natural, cathartic, and yet… well, artistic it felt to write in a prose-poetry style–flitting between ideas and images, figures of speech and cultural references, yet wrapping it all back around around a core of feelings and thoughts that read as personal and yet relatable.

Looking back, I started letting poetry take over keeping a journal around the end of high school — a few stray verses or a whole poem every few months (admittedly, of varying objective quality) as a way of condensing my hopes, frustrations, and a handful of powerful memories into a structured yet sincere whole. So with this one, I decided to take everything I’d learned — and experienced — in the past few year, and try it again. It may be too early to self-declare a niche for my poetry, but I feel like I really found it with this one (is “love and philosophy for Millenials” too long a moniker?).