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Random Poetry

Random Poetry

Progress, 10-21-1997

    We always move forward,
    Try not to look back,
    We always look back.

Autonomy, 10-21-1997

    A nation is born,
    Its masses swell.
    Tyrants rule,
    The people oppressed.
    Martyrs defy,
    The people shall cry.
    One shall fire,
    Rebellion is sought.
    Autonomy we want!
    Autonomy we get!
    The tyrant will fall,
    The tyrant does fall.
    A nation is born,
    The people be free.
    Recieve new order,
    All shall rejoice.
    Autonomy here,
    Autonomy now.

Ignoring the Pitied One, 04-15-1999

    Contained in their glee,
    Oh God will save thee,
    But what about poor little me?

Geek's Poem, 8-31-2003

    All these great geeks around, they live so far away.
    And just like the others they draw in, they certainly cannot get laid.

    A geek's life is one of misery: you do what others say.
    God forbid you ever stray, or else you'll surely pay.

    Woe is the day you live too far away. Woe is when you're not on-call that day.
    Woe is when you get fired & have to still live with your folks, because it
    probably costs we young geeks more to stay employed, than to mow lawns & flip
    burgers: God knows how we burn in sunlight.

    There is one final caveat to being a geek: spell "meek" & invert the correct
    letter. That, is our disposition.

Order and Chaos, 2-17-2007

    Order unto Chaos.
    Life is a fractal with recursive patterns,
    Upon which we are a part of and repeat.
    For it is said life is simple,
    and therefore its algorithm could not be complex.
    We are damned to concern ourselves,
    With how to escape the recursion,
    that makes a pretty picture for all others to see.
    Nobody said life would be easy,
    Yet everyday that claim is counterfeit,
    In the criticisms of others that seek to absolve,
    Themselves of worry about the rest of us.
    And so we try to construct a new function,
    Ways of measure and control.
    We can tweak the variables to our delight,
    But the grasp of our day is still of naught.
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