To her I was probably a symbiote,
Looking for who she is, minie miny moe,
My blood is heating more and more,
Her absence, I’m not monitored,
Roaming through the processes of life cores,
Life is too graphic, a bit graphic,
For I can’t see the path she is embarking on,
She is reckoning my own shutdown after some analysis on why I’m usually down,
Pessimistic paradox: gamer writing poems about the violence fuming from family souls,
Learning not to be synced with their processes,
For I can see how their existences might become combustible and subtle thought,
For I can see what they are envisioning, accelerating their frame rate with drought.
They can’t catch up to my identities changing,
For it’s a torture for these motherboard to be hoarding, forging emotional disturbance,
For this is an artificial intelligence I’m noticing,
Microwaving at my happy thought in a social distancing,
For looting my thought it’s a clash between clans of the son and enlightening motherboard with too many disco globes,
Beaming ideas to them are a sun roof,
For a new motherboard doesn’t understand my poetic flow,
She just ask me to place them on cold floors when a new poem makes the room hot,
But for a high definition of myself , just compare me to some homeless folk with too many written poetic songs.
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