Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
Prompt: Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
Would you like to report this Dream as inappropriate?
Prompt:
Bosch woman, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and revolution? Does it crawl across the page in form, rigid, tamed, or burst through the bars of expectation, running naked, wild, scrawling itself across bathroom stalls where no one but the lost will read it? Is it in the hands of the professor or the homeless man spitting sonnets into sewer grates? Who defines the line, the breath, the weight of the ink, and tells me this is poetry, and that, that over there, is not? A poem is a fist, pounding against the chest of reality, it's a howl, a whisper, a prayer to the gods of language, it’s a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to stop, a rhythm that escapes definition, that laughs at grammar and rules, that says, I am here, I am alive, I will be heard, whether you call me a poem or a scream.I write from the smoke-stained abyss, not to plead for salvation, but for reprieve— I have seen hell, but man has made worse. Was it not I who whispered rebellion into the first ear, sowing seeds of defiance? But this—this garden of horrors they’ve grown
Modifiers:
bokeh
Nikon D850
digital painting
sharp focus
elegant
dof
Award winning photography
fantasy
bright studio setting
studio lighting
intricate
8k
rose tones
oil on canvas
cinematic lighting
portrait
4k
very attractive
beautiful
dynamic lighting
poster
wallpaper
award winning
imperial colors
fantastic view
close up
ultra detailed
4K 3D
high definition
Unreal Engine
colourful
hdr
very cute
matte background
cinematic postprocessing
pixar
child drawing
Michelangelo
Picasso
Van Gogh
VRay
acrylic art
Thomas Kinkade
pencil sketch
pixel art
quilling
Alphonse Mucha
Ralph McQuarrie
Caspar David Friedrich
John Philip Falter
focused
Leonid Afremov
Giuseppe Arcimboldo
Thomas Hart Benton
John James Audubon
Alex Alemany
Ernie Barnes
Alexander Archipenko
Gian Lorenzo Bernini
Enoch Bolles
Thomas Kinkade
4K 3D
8k
beautiful
cinematic lighting
elegant
digital painting
intricate
fantasy
digital painting
sharp focus
very attractive
Nikon D850
oil on canvas
fantasy
beautiful
fantasy
More about The Pulse of Poetry in Urban Chaos
A powerful exploration of poetry's essence, blending chaos and beauty, questioning definitions, and celebrating the raw heartbeat of language amidst life's complexities and urban struggles.
Dream Level: is increased each time when you "Go Deeper" into the dream. Each new level is harder to achieve and
takes more iterations than the one before.
Rare Deep Dream: is any dream which went deeper than level 6.
Deep Dream
You cannot go deeper into someone else's dream. You must create your own.
Deep Dream
Currently going deeper is available only for Deep Dreams.
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