#ennui
The empty summer skies
infinte blue backdrop, a blissful abyss,
minute clusters of clouds as adrift as our lives,
caught by the furtive glance of my eyes
the idle summer days,
doleful dreariness in my voided comfort,
as I'm destined to perspire by this sweltering sun,
endless ennui of my nihilistic nights,
an existence made intolerably light.
the consuming summer craze,
No strength remains
in the absence of pain
soon to be my last.
Real respite feels fake when
when subsumed in summer's haze
hysteria heated by the hell outside,
arrested ambitions amidst the laze,
beams and rays, now fill me with doubts and lies
down winding roads
i do nowt but list the days
as I stray back into my listless ways
headed towards the plains
to embrace the blissful graze
a life of blistered grace,
Time in a misty daze.
Aug 9, 2025
Aug 9, 2025 at 9:28 AM UTC
Boredom
Nothing to do
Nothing to say
Nothing to feel
Its peaceful
It’s perfect
If only it didn’t feel so wrong
The yearn for excitement
Something to do
Something to say
Something to feel
It feels so right
If only it didn’t lead to a want to do nothing
A need for Boredom
Nothing to do
Nothing to say
Nothing to feel
And such the cycle goes on
And on
Forever longer
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 12:04 PM UTC
i wish i were a louse
so i could crawl about
and land on someone's scalp
rodion, exterminate me now
for such a time as this
take a final bow
before ceasing to exist
remove knowledge from within
a minimum wage job
blow on a dandelion
and turn down the volume ****
can the blinds be closed again?
from when i was a child
existence didn't seem so thin
the sauce is only mild
maybe i am mistaken
for i am still young
but will i feel the same
when the photo album's hung?
the opposite of a hobby
is a clean ceramic plate
the milk of human kindness
has gone past its expiration date
hand moves past the hour
writing within its margin
chronos will laugh
as i fertilize the garden
speaking to an empty sky
full of nitrogen and O2
if you really were here
couldn't i know, too?
mephistopheles knows
how long it's really been
spray insecticide in the air
an addition to the compost bin
don't mistake my words
for self deprecation
i simply wish that i
was unaware of termination
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 10:51 PM UTC
In the house by the lake
sat a man of few means.
He dwelled on his mistakes
that had left his life lean.
In that house in a place
by rippled waters’ edge
he saw just the faces
in the photos on the ledge.
Outside rang the birdsong
and the sun sent her rays;
the trees stood there strong
and the clouds went their ways.
But in that tiny home
a man just sat to dwell
to brood on being alone
and missed out nature’s spell.
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 5:17 PM UTC
My chin digs a ditch stretchin' miles behind me
My tucked tail has fallen off and lost sight of me
Occupying limbo in the company of ennui
A trait from Eeyores' arced personality
No hospitality
Low fruit hanging heavy
Rots gradually
A middle finger at the ready,
Presented indefinitely,
Squarely into the faceless face of longevity
As it inevitably gets the best of me
And I seemingly seem to be ignoring the complexity
Like it doesn't apply to me
Oh the irony
©2024
Aug 7, 2024
Aug 7, 2024 at 1:15 PM UTC
Being back home, in my childhood room is like climbing into a time capsule. I left for college quickly, back in ‘21 and I’ve only been back here once, briefly.
My closets are still full of my old high school clothes and there are shelves that line the upper walls of my room with maybe a hundred “Disney Princess” collectable statues (my favorite is Ariel).
I have one wall space behind my bathroom door that has a hundred yellow stickies on it - reminders of old assignments and quotes like, “Do you hate drama or create drama?” and “Imagine your future.”
Everything seems carbon dated. It gives me an impeccable, knife-like sense of ennui. I want to cherish it all or burn it all, depending on the time of day. I went to take down my old Humphry Bogart and Billie Eilish posters yesterday and Kim said “Noo,” in such a sad way that I stopped.
Hold on, let’s overthink this.
I had a hard conversation today. I broke the news to my cats (Belichick and Tom Brady) that school starts at the end of the month, and I have to go back.
They took it well, I think. You know how cats are. I’ll know in a day or two, if their good will has turned to sour offense - they'll claw something up.
Belichick seems to be watching me extra closely though.
.
.
Songs for this:
Lava by Still Woozy
Can't Hardly Wait by The Replacements
.
08.01.3PM
Aug 1, 2024
Aug 1, 2024 at 3:46 PM UTC
those pensive ones
as they seem to me
birds on the wire
gazing this way
and that
lost invariably
to their ennui
their melancholy
their obliviousness
to the point
some may say
pointlessness
of their existence
in these moments
without reason
or incentive enough
to prompt one
or the other
to take to the wing
embracing the bluster
of the ever-blowing winds
rather they sustain
this idle malingering
waiting listlessly
for that which none
can know
Jan 5, 2024
Jan 5, 2024 at 12:28 PM UTC
A yellow leaf
caught in the wind
it flutters
as it leaves the tree
try as you might
it won't be caught
I think that's called
ennui
Sep 15, 2022
Sep 15, 2022 at 7:46 AM UTC
Time passes a thought
To another, in a climbing sense of renderings...
We see the call to unify, in a shy voice ought?
Today was a marveling hour, we could marvel's ends...
Bite me...with a resolve?
They said the sour news is a welcome sunshine
With pets and history to come at all...
Of a younger moment to be quiet, for a composure of time...
Hours as we know, a fixation on else
Can be, the truth be found in a place of sin
Was this imagined tongue, the saying of wealth
Yet to be, the stir of justice of what is a craved wince...
Of passion over a legend to become, our friends
The tale we notice, and simplify by devoid and avoid
Is but a loose remark of such to roll and imbue, the like we end
As if the world knows any better: the fight of certainty's choice...?!
Sly or slime?
Tows of redoubt, between lovers or a heroism of dry finality's
Sunny as we should note, is about the hour I am trying
We see the traitor of commonness and pence, our humor is...
A rushing eye, to know a catastrophe
That is being a silent opportunity, to approach though
And worth the implied key, we find in the future feat
Of lying to the misses, when a game is for those we hosted, should first owe...?
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 12:49 AM UTC
The moving blanket of clouds dull the light of day
Darkening my shadow in my little room.
My body feels the energy of rain and wind
Tho I am only witness, not in contact.
So, I write upon my tablet as my thumbs touch each letter
Crafting the work seen here. But I have not to say.
No purpose but to write. No sense of story.
That is who I am.
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 12:01 PM UTC
My hands feel limp and impotent
My fingers half-numb across the keyboard
I've never felt so thirsty for understanding
But nobody in the world is quite what I want
I'm not going to shut my door
Even if all the cold air leaks out
I'll stare into the frame and
Maybe something will jump out
Maybe it'll all just rot with me
Maybe something will happen to me
Because I can't happen myself
All I can do is stare
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 1:11 AM UTC
Time slithers away
Fed to the infinite void
that is the past
It slinks slowly into the present.
Why do blood and roses
share the same color?
A crimson droplet
A crimson petal
Both fragments of life
One salter that the other
Throw me in a cage
And watch me bite at my tail;
A ravenous dog
ruined by the boredom of captivity
Tick tock
Another droplet
Another sliver of life
It falls into the puddle
Back into the void.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 5:55 PM UTC
second-rate skies standing solitary
frozen in their own mediocracy
conforming to the wills of majority
because I'm bored out of my mind
fingers tracing the swirls on the ceiling
feels like gravity herself is competing
and all I'm doing is moving, listless
I guess I'm out of time
so maybe I'm a little distracted
like particles of light are refracted
perhaps just a little compacted
from the cages you call fine
living without joy is no policy
so they make it out of complacency
questioning the laws of morality
and answers by design
but I'm reading all the words that aren't written
and suddenly I'm willing to listen
the stardust we're made of will glissten
because freedom I will find.
- Anisah Mariah
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 12:50 PM UTC
Life tastes of old bread and long-opened chips.
A haggard breath hanging in the heat.
A swollen tongue lolling and sticking to the roof of your mouth
getting in the way of lazy words that seek to dash the doldrums.
Sometimes the gaze of life is piercing and sometimes (now)
it is donut holes iced over and left out overnight
and then left out overnight again.
The muted voice of an underwater murmurer muttering
into cotton-filled ears something half-hearted and uninteresting.
Life is umami for dessert after a gluttonous feast
and never have I so craved the bright citrus peal
of an orange.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 2:18 AM UTC
I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."
I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."
I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 3:18 PM UTC
My heart writhes of pain, in the chilling fire
The fire for which she gathered, tinder
My quill and his ink froze, in the chilling fire
The fire which she gathered for my pyre.
My vellum sits bone-dry, in the chilling fire
Her fire, which burns my voices to cinder
Every fortnight, I see her glistening eyes
Reciting a monotonous sonnet of grey
That sonnet would never ever suffice
In sheathing me from her stagnant voice
As she smothers my final embers of life
As she “graces” me staleness from life’s fray
Her brushed hair, smooth in bronze.
Her florid face, baroque and supple.
Her lips, curled to a fluttering smile
Her gait, silent, steady and subtle
Her eyes, icy daggers skewering my heart
Her fingertips, flames freezing my breathe
I await in void as her hand rests on mine
Glaring the gloaming sky with heavy eyes
She drained my soul into a dead mine.
But... she birthed my precious Daphne
A shallow stream began from my dry eyes
“I miss our waltz, I always did, Ania.”
The ink on my quill began its flows
My heart repose, as my Ania mellows.
But sorrow, clutch me, she was my Ania
I shall see her very soon, in our meadows
We will have our Final Waltz, Ania
Yes, Ania; Our joyous waltz to Follia.
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 2:28 AM UTC
I feel
less volatile
less awake.
I've been biting my lip
livid.
Wearing my own blood as lipstick,
tears as mascara.
Whilst solidarity whispers dark words into my ears.
Meanwhile,
the crowds
they tell tales
of how pretty
I look.
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC
mauve and red on azure hue
jacarandas, flame trees and summer blue
that time again of heat
and inappropriate rituals
we grew here
and santa clause flew here!
who does he think he is?
roast dinners while paul kelly
asks who will make the gravy
bush fire victims needy of funding
while millions are spent on fireworks
as though there wasn’t enough smoke
or air pollution
families who avoid each other
through the year
gather with cheap coloured paper hats
and pull the ritual bonbon
and tell bad puns
to fill the gaps in conversation
and the cicadas sing out
the banality, the ennui
while cashed up families
tow caravans up and down the coast
to camping area suburbias
and celebrate their right
to overeat and drink beer
their god given entitlement
to be strayan
and talk about queue jumpers
that’s why i make my own ritual
based on the good things
of that time ...
respite from daily routine
time for quiet reflection
on the worth
of who you are
and who you’ve helped
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
something chasing after me, saltine
biscuits trailing my feet, salty tears soaking
them through their flaky meat, lotus dreams and
finite weeks, never running away from time, instead
waiting for it to catch up to our heels and
leave crumbs behind
time was sluggish and easy when I took it into my arms,
pliant when I bent it around my arms, hula hooping
lifting me to the tips of my feet, time knew me
better than the parents I’ll never meet,
dusty paths and soles of feet pattering on
sizzling concrete
time tells me that I should have been a runaway
ennui says I’m ***** souled and
listless and too far away
sugar in gas tanks and fingers plugged in ears kind of thing
chasing cheap thrills to kingdom come
until the moon is a gleam of white and
mixes and melds with the lines of
empty candle wicks
pop bottles popping off, night breezes, a kiss under palm trees
(ennui uplifted momentarily)
southern Arizona and cool synths, runaway dream
onomatopoeia making a home in our daydreams
furtive eyes seeking to find God, but
reality crashing down around me
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
hello? relative listlessness says
greeting myself and my other selves
bringing them together with twine
and setting it alight
anyone? clouds of words siphoned underneath
my feet, too many eyes that I find myself, strangely,
unable to meet
alone and afloat, submerged in the sea
simultaneously sinking and floating in
groups of threes
matching my heartbeat
making my mouth sweet
there? the ocean bed I never expected to see
nothing in my line of sight, so perhaps,
there wasn't really anything ever to see
voice bounds off into the periphery
between the boundary of things I try to meet
but can never reach
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC
Boredom digs itself a hole,
its friends?
manages its soul.
A snare of despair
into the straits
of Hades,
Beware!!!
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 12:34 PM UTC
If eyes roll
In the forest
Would a tree
Keel over
From ennui?
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
Maybe I am stuck
because I am waiting to be moved.
Maybe I can move
somebody who feels stuck.
I loop the songs I love
until I choke them of all emotion.
I stumble through words
from a million brilliant minds
searching for madness akin to mine.
Pictures, stories, art,
opinions, musings, crafts –
I gnaw at everything for hidden meaning.
Am I even human if nothing moves me?
Do I deserve death if I never learned to live?
Spur my soul, stir my heart
you, who knows exactly what I mean.
Or hark my bemoaning
as the graceless floundering
of unmoored ennui.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC