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Glitch Queen: A Postmodern Lament in Pixels and Pop

I. Glitch and Glam

Oh pixel-painted face, divine yet torn apart, Your eyes—so clear—hide chaos in your heart. A broken screen, a digital Mona Lisa glitching, With brows on fleek and lips that keep twitching.

You strut in frames that time forgot to save, Half Hollywood starlet, half anime waif. Your silhouette—elegant, yet buffering in place, Lost in the lag of a 90s dial-up space.

You’re not a dream, but a .JPEG with sass, A techno-muse caught mid-loading—alas!

II. Language: Mixed, Mashed & Memeified

You speak in filters, sigh in loops, cry in GIFs, Your catchphrase? A fusion of “hey you , salam” and “Wassup, sis?”

You’re not Korean, not Persian, not from Tokyo Town— But somehow you’ve “K-drama’d” your way into this crown. Half "oppa," half "OMG," fully “what the hell?” You’re trending, my dear, in every alt-spell.

Your bio says: "Dreamer, glitcher, digital girl," Your thoughts are streamed, your lashes in curl. With hashtags like “sadcore” and “pixel bae,” You shop in Clickistan, you slay in Overlay.

III. Hypermodern Romance

They liked your pic—was that love or just scroll? A heart emoji on your face… with a latency hole. Your tears? Just wet pixels. Your blush? RGB. Romance through bandwidth—no place for empathy.

Oh daughter of Photoshop, child of cloud, Worshipped by avatars, alone in a crowd. No perfume but metadata, no touch but screen— You kiss like a captcha. You smile like a meme.

IV. Final Frame

One day, dear Glitch Queen, your face might load clean, With no filter, no error, no static between. But till that day comes, we’ll cheer and repost, The ghost in the stream we pixel-love most.

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A Brain-Fart on a Goofy Canvas!

One up, one down, one left, another right, These faces look like they're in a "Who's More Crooked?" fight! One's eyes are bulging, another's brows are skewed, This canvas, since last night, survived an earthquake, no doubt! Lines tangled, as if a cat danced on the paint, This puzzling sketch by an "awesome" artist, a total rout!

That face up high, perhaps it's had some 'shrooms, Its gaze is blank and spaced, like a confused baboon's! Eyebrows raised, mouth all askew, a truly odd grimace, Did it just wake from sleep, to the sound of mushroom-vendor's doom? Its thoughts are soaring, like a space-bunny on a spree, Its heart's obsessed with sausages, or a hot pizza's fumes!

A wink from the left, who's this? The spoilt little fuss-pot! Looks like a kid who wants a monster pizza, no matter what! It's frowning, but deep down, there's a tickle, a jest, Did it forget where it kicked off its slipper, or left its hat? A smile that won't appear, its face a frog-like stare, Perhaps it dreamt it wandered, through a jungle of sparrows, what a plot!

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The Suspicious Case of the Blue Sock

I only went out for yogurt. Plain, mild, uneventful yogurt. But I wore two different socks. One blue like a bored Tuesday, the other... uncertain. Possibly beige. Possibly rebellious.

Five faces appeared out of nowhere— Like a jury summoned by the laws of awkward fashion.

One had curly hair that screamed in spirals. One looked like he hadn’t slept since 2003. Another stared like a disappointed art teacher. They didn’t speak. They simply... evaluated.

Finally, someone said, “You again?” I blinked. “I... don't think so?” Another leaned in. “Didn't you once laugh in an elevator... alone?”

I wanted to explain, I wanted to say: The elevator played a trumpet version of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ What choice did I have?

But they huddled, mid-sidewalk, like referees. Whispers. Nods. One pointed at my shoes, as if they held answers.

Then — verdict time.

The leader stepped forward, snipped the air with imaginary scissors, and said:

“This time, we’ll let you go. But next time, bring matching socks… or at least a sense of direction.”

And I, still sock-confused, walked home with my yogurt, and the unshakable feeling that perhaps I’d just stood trial in a dream written by a sock.

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in my small bubble

In my small bubble, The light broke, darkness Swallowed the window whole.

The neighbor shouted: "Enough with this midnight cry!" The dogs howled too.

In the cold street, A scream pierced the air: "Was that… a cake?"

A heart crushed, Or maybe a phone dropped Into the dark river.

A star died, Or maybe it was a firecracker, Fading in smoke.

My pulse pounded, My stomach screamed out: “Air’s been sucked in!”

My body shivered, The blanket, like an island, Warm and sleepy.

My eyes, tired and Like an old, heavy spider Stuck to the ceiling.

In the dark hollow, Like the last drop of tea, I slowly faded.

A rat in a hole, Its meaningless song Spinning round.

Morning arrived, Like a ruthless bell Stealing sleep away.

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Making Music with Just a Phone: The Struggle of a Digital Composer

Fingers on glass, a string trembles— a ghost comes to life in my hands.

A simple tap, notes come alive, my phone becomes my stage.

On the subway, in line, I compose a song, Mozart with WiFi!

Piano downloaded, drums from a free trial, the violin needs an update.

I raise the beat, add some reverb, hit record!

Three minutes… fifty-three seconds… a digital masterpiece.

Sudden silence— battery drained, my life is out of tune.

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The Forsaken Blood-Red Redbud

You’re back? What happened this time? The sky here is always lost, Maybe the sun hit snooze again!

I’m stuck in this corner with a wall, I can’t touch or see a thing, My hand won’t reach, my eyes won’t help!

Nobody seems to get it, there’s nothing here, Even the cacti packed up and left! The tea’s cold, heck, even I’m frozen!

The corners of this dungeon are just full of silence, I’m searching for a light, but it’s nowhere to be found, Even the electricity is on strike!

The Redbud is over there, is it laughing or crying? My heart’s like a teacup—constantly spilling! Spring’s dream? Well, that turned out to be a joke!

The sun’s on vacation, The sky’s probably in the restroom! Only the walls left me hanging!

The walls are everywhere, trapping me in, No matter what I try, I just bump into them! And the sun? Still asleep. Who knows when it’ll rise?

Redbud! Grab the spring flag, Ask the sun when it’s planning to wake up, But who’s got time to wait for that at this point?

The pigeons are still hunting for a place to nap, I’m stuck in this empty world with a door that’s locked, Am I dreaming, or am I alive? I’m not sure anymore!

Redbud! Tell me how to survive, These walls are making it hard to breathe! Maybe one day the sun will wake up, But by then, we’ll all be out of luck!

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The wise fool : knowing without understanding

Knows it all, yet stung, Silent keys on the piano — Lost in knowing.

He explained love, She laughed and left — Dopamine stayed.

In the mirror: "I know" — Echo: "Yet you’re alone."

Books closed, Coffee turned cold — Knowledge weighs heavy.

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Bibimbap and Pizza Fails: A Humorous Online Shopping Poem

Click.Picture of a bowl of bibimbap.In mind: The spicy and sweet taste of gochujang.Click again.It arrived.A handful of cold, lifeless rice.With three wilted pieces of carrot.In mind: The intoxicating aroma of sesame oil.Click... Ah, manja mia! (Oh, mama, how bad!)I ate it.Like chewing sad cardboard.Gochujang again?No, the taste of diluted ketchup.Bibimbap... like a disheveled Expressionist painting.The colors scream.The flavors cry.Click.Picture of a Neapolitan pizza.In mind: The aroma of fresh basil and stringy mozzarella cheese.It arrived.A burnt crust.With stains of something resembling tomato paste.In mind: The sound of the golden edges crackling.Click... What bad luck!I ate it.Like eating a cold piece of brick.Basil again?No, the smell of an Italian footballer's socks after ninety minutes of play.Pizza... like a crooked, distorted Expressionist sculpture.The forms shout.The textures wail.Click.Removed both from the shopping cart.Maybe tomorrow I'll buy instant noodles.With the taste of the sorrow of a retired samurai.And the sauce of the anger of a Sicilian gangster.Click.Life is a large Expressionist painting.In which we are small, sad pixels.

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Not sorry

Bitter surrender,like greasy fast foodthat hits you later.Kissed the cross of fateon the hilltop—but fell instead of rising.Cold night streets,goodbyes echolike unpaid bills.Not sorry,though my heart’s Wi-Fikeeps disconnecting.Skin tearing apart,like government websitescrashing at the worst time.Guess the Wi-Fi password—or maybe justignore the call.Regret? Maybe…but I’ll still say:Not sorry! 😎

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If Hafez Were Here Today

In a coffee shop, a boy in a yellow Beatles shirt — "Make it a double shot."

Traffic jam — angels stuck at the red light, waiting for a miracle.

On Twitter: "My heart is broken…" No likes, no replies.

Special discount — The Holy Grail, Out of Stock on Amazon.

Behind the tea cup, sunset in an Instagram story — Hashtag: #Heartbroken

On ChatGPT: "How do you untie these knots?" Server error.

In his notebook, light pencil strokes — Resignation in the margins.

A dark café, red lipstick, neon nails — "Wait, let me post this."

Apartment hunting — Deposit too high, so is the rent — so is the weight on his chest.

On the subway, coffee cup in hand, sad songs in his earbuds.

In a dim apartment, white walls, Googoosh playing softly.

"How to heal a broken heart?" Google offers silence.

At therapy — "Tell me about your feelings…" Hafez stays quiet.

Selling fortunes at the station — One for love, one for money, one for survival.

Friday night — dark window, a ghost of you passing by.

In traffic, in line for bread, in a child’s waiting eyes…

"I need to start over." Sunset again — in his story.

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Plato in the Age of Wi-Fi

1 Plato wakes up, grabs his phone, truth is still buffering.

2 A dark subway, in each wagon, a shadow with headphones.

3 New cave: phone screen glow, augmented reality.

4 The waiter said: "Don’t ask for plain truth! Get a latte, extra foam."

5 I wrote the truth, pressed send... "Subscribe first!"

6 A man said: "Truth? It’s in a three-minute YouTube clip."

7 In the café, Plato sat alone, philosophers lost in stories.

8 I became a freelancer, sold my thoughts, no one bought them.

9 An ad popped up: "Truth on sale! Buy two, get one free!"

10 He stepped outside, the sunlight felt strange, no one looked up.

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Shakespeare in the Digital Age

William sits still, lost in notifications, bored and distant.

"To be or not?" faded on Twitter threads, drowned in comments.

Romeo waits, Juliet has blocked her DMs, "Do not disturb!"

Macbeth sighs, Bitcoin has crashed again, no witches left.

Word document blinks, AI editor suggests: "A softer ending?"

Shakespeare stares, at a glowing screen, no ink, no paper.

The play is gone, deleted into ones and zeros, not to be.

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If Saadi Were Here

Rain starts to fall, Saadi calls an Uber, sips his black coffee.

Bitter than espresso, a left-on-read message, love in the digital age.

Twitter at midnight, a garden of lost poems, hashtag heartbreak.

No shade of cypress, just the glow of a charger, typing out verses.

ATM receipt, "Hard work pays off," they say, balance: zero.

She leaves him unseen, he texts back anyway: "Love you, but no data."

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Ancient poet in digital age

Scrolling through his phone, Legends once carved into stone Now lost in pixels.

Stocks rise and then fall, Kings no longer ride to war, They trade with a click.

No horse, no armor, A hero calls for a ride— The map leads nowhere.

Tea grows cold in hand, A poet lost in his thoughts, Echoes of his land.

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Cosmic Breakfast

Martian morning broke Cosmic pickle taste of secrets Pink cloud sweetly strange.

Spaceship, bus of stars between Jelly beings, space pedestrians roam Cosmic daily circus.

Office, glass cage of tasks confined Jet fuel coffee, despair's bitter taste Empty meeting, words unbound.

Home, a box of silence, stars between Reconstructed dinner, taste vague and cold Numb hologram gaze, routine.

Space night, black curtain, silence deep Marmalade dreams, space nightmares creep Another dawn, pickles steep.

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Loneliness & City Stress

Morning Bell, Seoul Bus crammed, press of bodies Kimchi scent, bitter sweat

Metro, Fish Tank Deep Heavy silence, wheel and rail Weary gaze, afar

Office, Wire Cage Cold Desks in rows, cold light shines Plastic smile, cold face

Boss, Shadow Tall Meeting, coffee growing cold Words repeat, empty sound

Night, Apartment Small Alone in bed, moon's pale gleam Rain on glass, fills with gloom

Mobile, Hand Alone Screenlight bright, fake light glow Friendship, emoji, void

City Soundless, Night Thoughts adrift, they spin and turn Sleeping pills, oblivion sought

Morning Repeat, Again Car horns blare, feet surge on Life, symphony, repeat...

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Virtual City and Memory of Nature

Glass screens are placed, Taking the sky's vast expanse, Filtered air we breathe.

Birdsong melodies, From tiny speakers now resound, Forests, just a scene.

Scent of rain-soaked earth, Cheap spray from cans, a fleeting scent, Memories for sale.

Coffee, nostalgia-flavored, In a cold plastic cup held tight, Modernity's bitter taste.

Nineties' pop songs play, From digital archives streamed now, Longing for lost youth.

Air pollution alerts, Stay indoors, the warnings chime, Oxygen prison.

Sweet dreams, bought and paid for, Real dreams' place now occupied, Waking, bitterer still.

Repetition of days, Life's unending, weary cycle, Artificial smile.

Human Number Three Zero Seven, Searching for lost memory's trace, In the virtual city's space

(Keyboard silence falls) (A bitter smile, emoji shown)