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#imitates
upon reading the poem https://hellopoetry.com/poems/5269054/the-empty-bench by ZainabSiddiqui @7:38am the capture of your eyes says here is a still life scene, and you need, you ken you keen to hold it within you for a time you know the failings of human memory; only the few, only the rare, survive the dying of the brain cells, the desperate clue to where/whom/when you first saw/saved you cannot trust your mind; forgets, changes, hides the details, inundating waves of “important” stuffs clutters up the never enough brain spaces where the gemmed can oft hide too well from yourself so you write a poem, that will live on forever, as long as we humans don’t destroy ourselves in toto, and you give thanks to yourself most, for perspicacity, the act of self preservation, write it down, so that someday your progeny, my progeny, our survivors, and the millions of total strangers can be bemused, free to use, this free to be imprisoned vision, in a greater than just one paired eyes, and you add art of it into a practiced perpetuity in a way that peculiar way, art intimates, imitates, the humans who have in their possess, an old attired forlon bench, a witness to history and you never say I must remember this! and laughingly say to your inner self, I am but the device devised, this image is now a gift never possessed till now and now is measured as forever forever forever, a new sharing reader~writer relationship invited, invisible and now visible, in our shrine of mutuality and you agree, with ZainabSiddiqui this moment deserved more than silence
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Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 7:28 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Upon reading my first poem of this day: when life imitates and intimates art
upon reading the poem https://hellopoetry.com/poems/5269054/the-empty-bench by ZainabSiddiqui @7:38am the capture of your eyes says here is a still life scene, and you need, you ken you keen to hold it within you for a time you know the failings of human memory; only the few, only the rare, survive the dying of the brain cells, the desperate clue to where/whom/when you first saw/saved you cannot trust your mind; forgets, changes, hides the details, inundating waves of “important” stuffs clutters up the never enough brain spaces where the gemmed can oft hide too well from yourself so you write a poem, that will live on forever, as long as we humans don’t destroy ourselves in toto, and you give thanks to yourself most, for perspicacity, the act of self preservation, write it down, so that someday your progeny, my progeny, our survivors, and the millions of total strangers can be bemused, free to use, this free to be imprisoned vision, in a greater than just one paired eyes, and you add art of it into a practiced perpetuity in a way that peculiar way, art intimates, imitates, the humans who have in their possess, an old attired forlon bench, a witness to history and you never say I must remember this! and laughingly say to your inner self, I am but the device devised, this image is now a gift never possessed till now and now is measured as forever forever forever, a new sharing reader~writer relationship invited, invisible and now visible, in our shrine of mutuality and you agree, with ZainabSiddiqui this moment deserved more than silence
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38
The breakfast chaos theory comes quickly and with no aforementioned warning. A hell in your stomach like an ulcer with hands now kneading your internal organs into bread or maybe as a precursor for the causalities of a lonely afternoon or boisterous night, no one ever knows. Suddenly the birds make eye contact with you and you are not the center of your gravity, your universe; your mouth is a beat off to your voice as if buffering, but why would it slow down? No physics to that but it's intangible. Just a school of thought, food for thought. Sipping your stale coffee from the same mug you use every day because sometimes he say " I lose you in between conversations, as if you're not there. Where do you go? what are you thinking? why do you never visit? why is everything a plea? why is it always getting further with you instead of closer. closer. closer." and i can't answer that because I learned from the best and besides I wasn't listening. But I was, I am. The breakfast chaos theory comes too soon; always hovering, asking of you to stop being that deserted home department store. Aisles of the same fun-house colors: green and yellow or red and white. It's a worldly thing, I think. An anomaly you weren't supposed to expect but now you have and everything has gone moldy.
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Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:06 AM UTC
nosebleedbaby
THE BREAKFAST CHAOS THEORY
The breakfast chaos theory comes quickly and with no aforementioned warning. A hell in your stomach like an ulcer with hands now kneading your internal organs into bread or maybe as a precursor for the causalities of a lonely afternoon or boisterous night, no one ever knows. Suddenly the birds make eye contact with you and you are not the center of your gravity, your universe; your mouth is a beat off to your voice as if buffering, but why would it slow down? No physics to that but it's intangible. Just a school of thought, food for thought. Sipping your stale coffee from the same mug you use every day because sometimes he say " I lose you in between conversations, as if you're not there. Where do you go? what are you thinking? why do you never visit? why is everything a plea? why is it always getting further with you instead of closer. closer. closer." and i can't answer that because I learned from the best and besides I wasn't listening. But I was, I am. The breakfast chaos theory comes too soon; always hovering, asking of you to stop being that deserted home department store. Aisles of the same fun-house colors: green and yellow or red and white. It's a worldly thing, I think. An anomaly you weren't supposed to expect but now you have and everything has gone moldy.
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3