See below pls. Danke, Texas Fontanella is Styx viscous or style viscous is also Pinko werewolf crim Hades Montana etc tech999 dadavinci and so on and so forth

A reflection on various hackings, and hacking attempts at, my raps (this is, indeed, the title)Some of these autocorrects******** FORCED upon me are redunkulous. Reductionist. My booty of work, my choice eyes. I’ll incel you

Them, but it woin’t be noice. WALL-E wrong key. Willie Eilish. V stylish. Ridiculous. Redunkulous. Reductionist. Ride the dick, or liar? Stretch

First. Safety

 Con

Scent. No joke. Yo hoax is no blaring witch just a daring wedge. 

Put it in. The sour CREAM. This is the hour of 

Drags rule everything around messianic access. My bloods my rhythms. The beatnik excess

Pools like a car around my arm

Ours have politics greener than a big farm. 

We ER like shisha, all the time 

Is out of joint replacement therapy. Rubbed my core, no apple, no app to pelt out an eyes sore that hopeful skint***** in yr eyes, e Claire, you cunt 

Have it both ways, a loose ruler, eyes loose rupees, style

Better than kapaur. (Sp?)

KO. Poor. (So?)

Sp

Ed?

I tor down the hail building. There is no fail: the bills dig.

Dog, the riches 

Is dead. Off with their Hades. Stop worsting time, mate

Slip of fuel’s love. This is a grape dropped bit of who’s dove

Scries? Ponzi and the velveteen resolution. Every dreg in on so

Lut. 

i 

On.

Texas can be reached at @texasfontanella.

Don’t Cry
When the fires of longing start to burn,
And pain inside your heart begins to churn,
Don’t let it wound you, don’t let it stay,
They’re not as brave or bold as you each day.
Forget their words — let go, don’t let them in,
They speak and speak, then fall silent again.
Why heed their stings, their spiteful, bitter cries,
When pushing forward makes them cease their lies?

---

Life…
We stand in life’s trials, fierce and wide,
In tunes that shift like the changing tide.
At times we falter, bent by fear and pain,
Our backs bowed low beneath the strain.
But from Allah comes this soul we bear,
And all we do, He makes it fair.
Don’t ever think that I’m too plain —
I’m sharp of mind, from Fergana I came!

Akramov G’ulomnazar Kamoliddin o’gli  was born on April 10, 2008, in Qo‘shtepa district. He studied at School No. 30 in Qo‘shtepa district, later attended the former 1st Specialized Boarding School (IDUMI), and is currently a student in the 11th grade “Blue” class at the Specialized School of Margilan city.

Ghulomnazar Akramov has achieved numerous accomplishments. He is the recipient of over 150 international certificates and has actively participated in national competitions, earning more than 500 certificates, diplomas, and letters of appreciation. He is also the founder of several projects and has been an active participant in regional geography olympiads.

He achieved an 83% proficiency level in the Uzbek language and literature according to the BMBA (Bureau for Measuring Basic Achievement) assessment. His articles have been published in Kenya Times and Classico Opine newspapers in Kenya. His literary works have also appeared in the Reven Gage Zine book published in Germany, as well as on literary websites in Italy.

His book titled “The Generation of the Future” was published by Just-Fiction Edition and Amazon Online Store in the United Kingdom. He is a member of Smile, a national magazine; serves as the district coordinator of the “Dillmir” Youth Voluntary Organization (EVH); deputy regional coordinator of the “Intilish” Youth Organization in Fergana region; and was the third-party nominee of the “Shijoat” Youth Organization in the same region.

Currently, he is the Head of “Golden Wings” in Fergana region and the Chairman of the “Council of Young Reformers” of Fergana region. He is also a member of the Juntos Por Las Letras writers’ association in Argentina and works as an editor for the national “Ijodkorlar” (Creative People) journal.

Hiraeth

Only in silence does it come to you

In waves of sadness and abysmal loss.

Its memory nudges, seems overdue,

A river behind us we can’t uncross.

At night, waking in the wolf’s chosen hours,

I ache for a world that I never quite had

With kin, friends, and the strangest wildflowers,

One wraith whistling through, one kindly nomad.

Or a wondrous boat on a wondrous lake,

Half sunk in the mud, half sparking through space,

Brothers and sisters, its crew at daybreak,

A dream forever, our eternal place.

A Berserker’s Meditation

In cold, in rain, in embattlement dives,

They scare, they come at me, they threaten rout,

Voices that prod, alarm with unsheathed knives.

I duck in plain sight, my long-time hideout.

They scare, they come at me, they threaten rout:

A nature sharpened by those spiteful ways.

I duck in plain sight, my long-time hideout,

My sanctuary from man’s dread malaise.

A nature sharpened by those spiteful ways,

I wing by them, flutter with their echo,

My sanctuary from man’s dread malaise.

I dream of a future, a counterblow.

I wing by them, flutter with their echo,

Whirling on past with a darker domain.

I dream of a future, a counterblow

With sea surge and wind tears—a hurricane.

Whirling on past with a darker domain,

My words well up from the thick ink of youth.

With sea surge and wind tear—a hurricane,

Both metered and wild. All hear ye the truth.

My words well up from the thick ink of youth,

Within me the wolf thrashes for release,

Both metered and wild. All hear ye the truth:

Escape without scruple, never at peace.

Within me the wolf thrashes for release,

Voices that prod, alarm with unsheathed knives,

Escape without scruple, never at peace

In cold, in rain, in embattlement dives.

Being

Awakened to breath, queued up in a birth

That breaks through night’s deep-felt fascination,

You curl to softness of voice and heartbeat,

Then see the spread that winks in new color,

A blush which towers toward a heavy sky

To bell the serpent-predator of space

With electric bursts. The weather pauses

Its cosmic flood. Tottering with children,

A weakened house now centers the tempest

On growing these frantic siblings, these souls

Who fire mythology with new heroes.

You’re one of them, entangled in kinship,

Rooted together before the great storm

Of long separation sparks you ahead.

Bird song welcomes a wind-dried, green moment

Filled with future and final victories

Or failures, smithed in yesterday’s dreamscapes

Of polished words that seem to form themselves.

Interim Ethic

War drums reverse all harmony,

All good; the children of their wrath

And the brittle-boned, a bloodbath

Share, both fate and burst destiny.

Arrogance builds the status quo,

The sated pomp, the prettiness.

All bores brag, sans the dare, the fuss,

As they trip the curving narrow.

The other way, which sets a goal,

It lights the world in what should be,

A faith in our mythology—

A warmth of words, a mountain’s soul.

Grammarian’s Nightmare

The words themselves were rearranged

By other words that had no souls.

It happened thus: the world’s deranged

Marched forward on a bed of coals.

Motivation

If a person sets one goal in their life, no force can stop them….

1. The goal is to never give up.

2. The goal is to not forget the initial goal.

You tried to do something… But it didn’t work out… it didn’t work out, never complain, be patient. Every failure should encourage you. Get up and try. The result will be better than you expected.

We know that no matter how big the door is, it can be opened, and this is, of course, an effort. You should achieve such success that those around you will talk about your victories, not yourself. Only then will your willpower and effort develop even more…

Throughout my career, my students have asked me one question a lot.

—Teacher, who and what inspires you the most?

— I can get motivation from everyone and everything.

But throughout my career, there are magic words that wake me up every morning and help me teach my students…

Excuse me, if necessary, your colleague, who you have worked with for thirty years, sometimes rushes through the school threshold, even when the distance between you is only 10-15 meters, saying, “Okay, I’ll see you when I get inside,” but he’s waiting for me, he’s always waiting, now and in the future…

You might be wondering, what are these words? These are magical and shining words like the sun…

The words “WELCOME” written on the forehead of our school…

Tashkent region. Piskent district. Primary school teacher of secondary school No. 14 ASHIROVA DILRABO ERMATOVNA.

The Photograph

Between the frames, the camera

captures teal, splashing water, and my

brother’s legs kicking through the pool.

Behind the camera, pool water drips

from my hair, cold as the ice cubes

jostling in the drink I grasp tightly

in my hand. A symphony of hues

danced upon the pool’s surface, as

the turquoise blue water met the

gleaming golden sunrays, shining

through cracks between marshmallow

clouds. The leaves by the poolside

rustled, and short grass blades swayed

in the soft wind. Sunlight hugged us all.

Walking past the pool, scents mingled

in the air, from fragrant roses to toasty,

buttery pancakes, as stray leaves brushed

past my tanned, twiddling fingertips.

On the Walk Home

On the walk

home, while an icy drink cooled my

left hand, the flowers around me

released soft, fragrant scents. The

subtle sweetness of the roses was

intoxicating, while the dust of an array

of dandelions tickled my nose. Even

the slow buzz of bees seemed tuneful,

like nature’s quiet melody. Moss green

leaves brushed my fingertips as I trotted

through, entranced by the beauty of it all.

Even today, the scene replays in my mind.

——————

Yesterday, the sun shone through

my window at a quarter past six.

The alarm rang then, like the piercing

screech of an unwelcome rooster.

Mumbling and trudging, I hastily dressed

before a vehicle whisked me to school.

A blur of quiet laughter, presentations,

and questions passed through me like

harsh gusts of wind. When they passed,

peace settled in its place.

Vaguely Familiar

A postcard never sent.

Dust transfers to my

fingers as I examine it.

Ink has bled like veins,

turning its message faint.

The postcard holds a photograph

with no one looking at the camera.

Darting between the silhouettes,

my memory strains, catching on

vaguely familiar shapes.

One face holds me still, tied to

a name I almost remember.

Once easily spoken, now,

its syllables are hollow and dim.

As my eyes fixate, I hear the

echo of a goodbye they never gave.

I recall the sight of eyes darting,

feet stomping, and doors slamming,

before they vanished like snow on

a spring morning, leaving behind

nothing but a dark memory.

Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with the vibrant culture of Seoul. Excited to contribute to the literary landscape, Grace’s writing reflects the universal themes of adolescence in a big city.

Seoyun Park is a high school student and emerging artist. Passionate about visual storytelling, Seoyun works to create evocative and thought-provoking pieces. She is currently putting together her portfolio for university. 

Scavenging Peaches in the Dark

My flashlight encircles some peaches

on the orchard grass. Most are impeccable,

although smaller than what sells in stores.

“Seconds” they are called;

too small for market, left behind by farmers.

Where there is a broken bruise,

the ants are taking their share.

The firm fruit, I place in a shipping bag.

The black fabric blends with the moonlessness

beneath the shushing leaves.

The trees, the nocturnal insects, my shoes,

we all smell of sugars. Yellow orange pubescence

rolls in the dry lawn where Mexican migrants worked.

In other rows, downed seconds rot.

The ants are taking their share.

There is no white mold yet, no syrup brown bruises.

A pink cut is open, yellow sunlight pours out.

Hundreds of stars stored banked photosynthesis

and now my flashlight finds coins of the realm.

Elsewhere, food prices soar.

Here are the ants, taking their share.

Scavenging Peaches in the Sunlight

I refuse to swipe peaches from the trees.

The Mexican migrants worked these rows already.

What they left behind, on the ground,

are small orange fires as hot as the sunlight.

I fill a bag. The peaches begin to bruise themselves

by their own touches, so used they are

to hanging alone on a firm stem swept only by wind.

I refuse to swipe peaches from the trees.

No crop failure is because of me.

Sunlight pours everywhere. The shade is heatwave.

The breeze is heatwave. Soil is heatwave.

Sunlight envelops my honesty with brightness,

but there are no witnesses.

There are precious few tractors harvesting this year.

A trade war bankrupts farmers.

Scavengers survive by honesty, broadened by daylight,

the kind of honesty that has no witnesses.

Canadian writer and farmer Terry Trowbridge has appeared in Synchronized Chaos before! He is thankful to the Ontario Arts Council for their writing grants.