From

From is a poem I wrote for a school assignment, somewhere in between the time I was 11-15.

I am from reflective white droplets  
left in the wake of my finger's path,  
in an oscillation from hardwood to bedsheet,  
faded keycaps to grimy glass,  
and the words I whisper through my fingertips  
to the machine that decides if I may pass.  

The machine,  

if electronic,  
    opens the gates,  
    permitting entry  
    into a digital/mental garden  
    of seven main segments, each  
    is designed & optimized, for  

    my needs,  
    my habits,  
    my methods,  
    my thoughts,  
    my behaviors,  
    my aesthetics,  
    my preferences,  

    a good place for a rest break before  
    dealing with another machine.  


if organic,  
    the     machine   just   questions.  
    I find this behavior     irritating, and  
         I'm sure they    do    too.     Which  
     is why      it's a little      uncertain 
       as    to      why   they  engage  
           in it. but  
       it  is common where I am from,  
    and therefore   I must cope with it  

    for  now.  


if both types of machine are present,  
    then things begin to get slightly  
    more interesting.  

    After all, the circumstances  
    in which they join in these sorts of dances  
    are pretty limited.  

    Because at least in where I'm from,  
    they mostly join     not    in      spoken     words  
    but in text,  

    text that was written by organic machines,  
    text that was displayed by electronic machines,  
    text that was thought by organic machines,  
    text that was delivered by electronic machines.  


At the end of this program,  
the two only intertwine where I usually am.  
A garden that crossed online.  
I can only tell half the story of where I came from.  
The half that sits above the clogged drain in the bathroom.  
Because half of me is from the showerhose, the stream,  
spraying a pouring rain of human brains.  
Which then connect with me.