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adriana Dec 2020
In a universe where nothing could be everything
and everything could be nothing
I wake up blinded by the sun and my weak eyes struggle to conform
but her power desires me

In a universe where silence can ring ears
and actual sirens can calm them
My engine rustles with promise as I drive down the unpaved road
I am cement, and spill out of my windows into the potholes as I pass
Shadows of trees fold over behind me as outlines of roofs emerge
one day I’ll drive and count them all

In a universe where we worship time
but it repays by pilfering our youth
I make out silhouettes through the strands of my ***** hair
Your tie taunts me, perched confidently on the base of your neck
My fears in the flesh, enveloped in dark eyes and strong posture
one day I’ll face him eye to eye  

In a universe where we long for love
but company deludes us
I eat dinner alone at a table for six
and stare longingly through one of my three big windows
My mom probably called but my phone’s been on silent
one day I’ll get free time and call her back

In a universe where nothing could be everything
and everything could be nothing
My pillow steals my thoughts for the closing hours of the night
and I ponder on how much of me it’ll return when I wake up in the morning

Poetic interpretation of the views of George Berkeley intertwined with mentions of other philosophers such as Hume.
Pawnesh Dixit Jul 2020
Life  is the name of which flying bird
not necessary to know
thinking is crime
pause is unknown
wherever whoever wants  to stop the moment

with  the cycle of  mutual gossip,
with the seductive artwork of t.v.
with  the magic of sports
with the dream ‘s illusion work
Deterioration drivablition,
Sobbing of this golden cycle happeneth;
by coming of earthquake,
moving  away of dear one ,
breaking of sweet dreams,
with the onset of untimely illness,
with the increasing of confliction
decreasing of ultimate peace

Now person feels stagnant blame for innocent luck
Becomes a philosopher in his own life
Again to seize a new moment..
ok okay Jan 2019
As white as the snow that is yet to come
And as delicate as a fallen autumn leaf
A Heron patiently waits like a philosopher lost in thought
Stanley Wilkin Aug 2017
They attacked her in mid exploration
Cutting away her golden thoughts
As they cut away her flesh, destroying
A mind that they couldn’t destroy in
Debate, a sparkling old woman
Whose thoughts were spun from steel.

The screaming mob desecrated her tiny form
Dragging it into the dust, through the *******
And ****. Tearing off her clothes
The Parabalani exposed her to celestial winds crossing
The arora, rubbing
Spoilt Alexandrian soil into her unexplored ******.  
She did not die as a philosopher, calculating and
Learning, but, torn apart, the old woman
Screamed out for her father,
Terrified, in sacrificial pain so much worse
Than beheadings and crucifixion. Her modesty,
Kept for 60 years, mutilated by a 1000 killers in a single

Her head bounced in the forum,
Her arms thrown to the 4 corners,
Her soul stamped into the gutter,
As the new religion cried out for tolerance.
In a morning thinking became forbidden
Books burnt, laughs ignored and fires built for heretics.
Hypatia was a female philosopher in Alexandria in the 4th century who was torn apart by a Christian mob, her skin scraped from her bones.
Ricky J Jan 2017
A dandy gentleman contemplates the human condition.
He sits alone in a french coffee shop,
poetry and philisophy his primary mission.

An awkward mind and deep pocketed heart,  he bites eagerly into a freshly baked maple syrup ****.

His mustache is striking, as though it has a story of its own
He wears a blue velvet coat filled with notes,
not to mention a lifes work of observations and quotes.

He checks his pocket watch from time to time
As he gathers his thoughts to write the next line.

A hint of tobacco can picked up from his vintage clothing  
He's a complicated fellow, enigmatic but soothing.

His top hat well established sits on top of his head
His shoes finley polished black with stripes of red.

A long worn out coat still encapsulates  his grace
He has a slight intensity reavaled in his face

For this mans work will never be done
For madness is in his nature, to him this is fun.
I thought of this person as an essentric versoin of moi in the future
Ignatius Hosiana Jul 2016
"Being an introvert in an extroverted
world can absolutely be difficult."
Came across this on some blog.
Think it's more complex to be a mediocre, an extro-intro or an intro-extro...
you can't go all out... you won't remain all in...
you're doomed to be in the twixt. Yet the middle is dangerous...
The middle of the Ocean is the deepest, the middle
of the jungle is the riskiest... the middle of the garden
of Eden doomed an entire race...
for its existence... no driver would drive freely in the middle lane,
most run to the climbing lane soon as they see it.
Some say the Earth is trapped between Heaven and Hell...
maybe we're a compound of Paradisal elements and
the rumbles of the Hades...
the pawns in the Chess between God and Satan, the Jobs in the bible of now...
I'm a Junk of all trades & I'm afraid being in between trades makes me a master of non...
I know too much and yet I know nothing... I am an extro-intro...
I go out only until the plank starts to swing the other way...
I go out until I sense the cold and quickly run back to the lukewarm
betwixt for the hot is as fatal to my kind as the cold.
Am not an Author and neither am I a poet... Am a "Poether'' or an "Auoet", Am not philosophical neither am I "philological" or "Theolophical".
I'm trapped at the equator... I'm neither an Eskimo nor an "Antactico"...
Not Ugandan nor Kenyan... Tanzania can't claim me
but there's yet to be a concrete East African...
maybe I'm African.
My point is some people think the middle is safe...
but I believe different. it's my opinion if you want to be a piglet be one,
if you want to be a puppy be a puppy for its fatal to be a Pipet or puppet...
both are instruments... even their use is similar.
My tragedy is am in between, am a mediocre, a pother,
an opssimist, a philothopher, a ctranger or say "Ukantan".
I'm just there... Don't be caught in my place...
find a place to belong... no matter how dangerous and risky...
always choose where you lie...always strive hard to find a prowess...
Go past the lines for History remembers those who are unique...
whether for the worst or the best.
Be the last if you can't be the first...
*Everyone will remember Mabirizi for he knew how to be the last...
And sadly everyone will remember Museveni for he's good at keeping his place.
Who will remember the one in between.
Who will remember Besigye? Who will remember the servant boy that
cautioned Achilles against fighting the Thessalonian?
Who will remember me?
Ignatius Hosiana Jul 2016
Once you know yourself, you know the world
and once you know the world you know yourself
Ignatius Hosiana Jun 2016
An Author is as good as his Editor
*a poet as good as his emotions
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