#meaninglessness
mornings are slipping away in a blur,
patterns of certain habitual sadness.
words with no meaning,
disease with no cure.
porcelain dolls, both lifeless and ageless.
haunted by visions, hidden in mirrors,
wrapped in despair, victims and sinners,
chasing the rush of the next final turn.
decades are slipping away in a blur.
May 5, 2024
May 5, 2024 at 2:16 PM UTC
You'll find pointlessness
when you search from the outside --
for any purpose.
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 1:58 AM UTC
#
*In Love, I watered it
With care.. I adored it;
This ten.. by ten, patch..
just outside, the wire--
at the edge of my fence-line,
daily I gave without, tire
There's a country-side
of wild prairiegrass
that lives.. and thrives..
just beyond my grasp
This grass.. it don't need me
in order to survive..
And all this time
I thought that I was
keeping it alive
Carefully-planted tufts--
windblown, as I sleep
uproot from this patch
that I prayed
the lord would keep..
And on some distant, hill
across these natural
waves, of grain
Uprooted.. becomes, naturally
rooted, again--
Forever, naturally-watered
by a Forever-natural, rain
Maybe, now
I can finally leave
a world that has
never, truly needed me
Why do I still
so much, believe?*
I believe....
I believe.#
Nov 26, 2021
Nov 26, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
Death begins the day the newborn cries
Not its choice, grew up believing
Clinging to futility on death's bed
As if another life brings the dead to life
Affirmed as gods, life stroked, seduced
Painful dissonance yet believing
Chance is king but Will supreme
Striving to the death for one more chance
Failures chastised, pride conceals, boastfully
Offering ashes, gods obliged, believing
Truly only Money matters, Chance *******
Life ransomed too, not today, surely tomorrow
Love or transactional *** legal or not
Life's answer or preachers' lies believing
Perhaps only masturbatory self love is true
Justified indulgence entirely in one's own hands
Meaninglessness, life’s honest and brave end
Else denial and delusion, make believing
This moment till death has despair to work
Alas many flail cowardly, ironic futility grasping
Will strong, flesh betrays, in hypocrisy
Peter wept, shamelessness hardens believing
Death discerns not its own stench
Life's fragrance repulsive and offends
Life imposed freely from the beginning
Conned and chose to pay for believing
A shadow of what will be but tempted to be
And the Accuser justified and God ******
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 11:31 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
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,
deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?
can i finally escape myself?
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 9:14 AM UTC
#*Round, wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie
drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
the windborne silts of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition
and throughout aeons, of forming
and unforming within the wild
brutal winds: grinding, pulverizing
granite, back down to pebble
majestic prairie, back in to sand..
and then, back down into
windblown silt
now circling around the feet of a child,
(one that pokes at dead things with a stick)
But within the silt, are the pebbles
and so, down on her knees she forms
a pile with her hands.. an ancient burial mound,
stands up, and with a clap of her
little hands, wipes a millenia of dust away
stick, tucked under arm-- she walks away:
as silt-covered pebble, become once again
Round, wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie
Drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
(the wind borne silts of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition....)*
#
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 7:42 PM UTC
My home ran way
Now I sit were glass meets the frame at the window and wait.
How long has it been
Years?
Weeks?
I'm not sure I care.. I'm not sure I don't
The mountabank came round again
Selling me a fictitious love.
His love.
You see, sense he travels so much selling the good oils
of
Rosemary tilled out of our toilet, Powders that
I personally
made from the stalagmites that grow in the southwest corner of my dwelling,
and
Teeth whitener
scraped from off only the finest ingredients
of
Feets calus, the kind aquired after walking long enough to no longer need shoes.
No he had no time for me and besides, he wasn't my home.
I'd have my fun but... He could never hold my love.
Yesterday I passed away
The cold nothing
Became a greater threat this time
I didn't have my home
Nor my love
I wasn't ready to go.
In a dank cave somewhere in the Philippines
After the hair on my head grew from fire red
To silver white.
Still sitting where the glass meets the frame.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
I understand.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot.
In the puzzle of your routine.
I know.
How thoughts can become clocks.
The terrifying performance of repeat.
I share it.
Your idea of total estrangement.
Blonde avenues without a silver soul.
I believe you.
Those sharp ideas to break free.
To be ruled by pure impulse.
I’ve got your back.
That plan to draw meaning.
To assist others to pleasure.
I realize that too.
That you’re at the edge of the night.
That you’ve got goosebumps as stars on your skin.
I do not deny it.
The vastness of every unused minute.
Cold, the cold bored instant.
I share your opposition.
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
How small a part of life can sting.
I know.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot .
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC
With its parched dreams,
beneath the zizzing sands,
the river waits for a surging swell
to take it to the labyrinths of a
new consciousness.
You choose your own course
when you crash into the
chasms of meaninglessness.
You hibernate to the still zone
trancing between words
when words fail to contain you.
As you flow through me,
you become the sacrarium
in the labyrinths of my consciousness
for me to diffuse in your soul’s stillness.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
Sometimes
I fall
Into a bottomless pit
Of despair
Other times
It's a bottomless chasm
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
I like going up to 9th level of the parking deck across from where I live.
I always take the stairs so my blood is buzzing slightly at the top.
My favorite is when it’s windy; the wind mixes up the sounds and smells and dirt below and sends it far away, cleansing the air.
I like looking down at the road that I walk on everyday, with the perspective of a bird, rather than a person.
Watching from above, far enough away that I can no longer hear the people's footfalls, mindless chatter, raucous laughter, see their expressions, their clothing brands, their incessant cell phones.
Watching them take infinitesimal steps across the street or cars take a corner too sharply just to save half a second reminds me that I too am an ant.
Going nowhere.
Doing nothing of importance.
Fluttering from one place to another with the weight of a jury on my shoulders. Believing that my footsteps echo across the world, shaking the ground beneath everyone's feet to cause earthquakes, when in fact, they are almost inaudible.
I know it's time to go when the lights turn on, reminding me that I can only stay removed from society for a short while. Thoreau returned to civilization, the Pevensies left Narnia, Caesar went back to Rome.
A butterfly lay dead in the stairwell as I hurried down. I wondered how it had gotten stuck inside and how long it had flapped in anguish before it fell from the air to rest on the ground until the wind blew it away.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Another 20p in the jukebox
Another has-been song
The bar is full of people
Each one moving along
They exist, satisfied
In their own small bubble
Each person is alone
This is what we call a life
This is all we've ever known
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
Four shots of ***
Then I write
Grandiose, I soliloquise
And my pen tracks across the page
Talking of being forgotten
As they themselves shall be
Then, my mind afire, and exhausted
I collapse, into the oblivion of sleep
This is but practice for death
I wake, and the process begins anew
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
I came, or was ******
Into the world
A half formed thing
I have limped through life
The waters of the universe
Slip through my fingers
I cannot cup my left hand
To catch the falling stars
Nor have I, all my brain
With which to comprehend
The nothing, that is our existence
I have existed, set back
Striving, for chances
To be, the same
I have thrown away
Gold gilt books, of wisdom
And sweet fruits of life
To follow others, to rot
And ruination, to be in company
To feel normal, and be not alone
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
I am a chance
Standing on the back of great improbability
Formed by sheer coincidence
And the random vastness of the universe
Yet I am supposed to
Believe?
In meaning, purpose, no
How may I?
My very essence
What mystics call a soul
Is but the product
Of a million, random
Bizzare happenings
That impressed themselves
Forcefully upon my psyche
How then, if this, is 'life'
May I believe
In meaning, or purpose
How, I wonder
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
Contentment?
Who needs contentment.
Let's burn this fxckxng house down
so our skin swelts from the heat
and our egos can cry for our lost possessions.
Who am I without my Things?
Who is Sisyphus without his boulder?
A man now content with only himself?
Gxddxmn Absurdism.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
Alone,
Red flower with no admirer
Fragrance dissipated
Alone,
You are not here not there
Your body emptied
Alone,
Why am I here
Waiting for?
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
This life is so boring
Flies gather on light bulbs
And burn their legs off
I’ve spent the last hour
Rolling their bodies into the storm drain
But they keep coming
They just keep coming
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
Together, we springtime saunter through a busy cities with pink dancers and naked cowboys cluttering the street. The buildings are towering above us, but we don’t bother looking that high; we maintain straight gazes towards ordinary people. Lady liberty waves to us and expresses fondness towards our interlocked fingers. He casually wonders how sharp the spokes are on her crown and how tall the real statue stands.
He learned to love himself through me and someone called that misandry. It was utterly absurd so I paid her no heed, but it made him realize where he’d go if I broke him. “I promise I won't break your heart,” I say, but he tells me, “You can’t know that .” He doesn’t yet know that I always keep my promises. He doesn’t yet know that if anyone has to fear a broken heart, it’s me. When he learns to spin in pulsing neutron stars and sees that I am but a sad cloud of collapsing solar dust, he might decide he would prefer to love something a little more radiant than I am.
“Stars burn out,” I think, “and solar dust can turn into a galaxy one day.”
Together, we lie on crispy summer grass that brushes our spine as the sun tickles our collarbones. Our ribs ache from laughter and I know I belong to him as the stars belong to the sky. “I’m glad we got to spend much of vacation together,” he says. I mutely agree because I have no cliche metaphor to contribute. I just try to stare at the sun, convinced that it wouldn’t damage my eyes because I didn’t go blind the last time I tried. “Youth is invincible,” I finally say and I let him ponder what I mean until he puts it in the back of his mind with a long list of phrases I uttered to him, all of them just short of poetic. Still, I know he plans to write a song out all the babble he thinks I mean.
He grabs my hand and traces circles around my knuckles. We’re only sixteen, but he thinks that if people aged backwards, teenagers would realize they were wrong when they were parents, so he doesn’t think high school love is insignificant. They told us we’re in our prime, but he doesn’t think people in their prime are always staring at sharp objects and read Ecclesiastes for fun.
“The others are wrong,” I think, “it can only possibly get better from here; it definitely can’t get any worse.”
Together, we watch as colorful nature is scattered across the sidewalk and piles up in the road in mountains of autumn. Squirrels gather the acorns that we are trying not to step on since we are barefoot. You can’t see the mud on his feet because his skin is so dark.
We discuss how the universe is a place too vast to fit within our logical comprehension, too vast to understand. We both know that infinity isn’t something to grasp, even if physics said it must exist. Since we’re just a little pinprick in a universe we’ll never draw on a finite piece of paper, we see we’re lonely people staring at lonely stars. “All we can do is hope that company of others will prevent all this loneliness from consuming us all,” he says and I’m impressed, so I say, “I’ve learned that it is possible to find the right company.” He smiles because he thinks I mean him, and maybe I do.
“I love him,” I think, “and I’m lucky that he somehow loves me too, even if we can’t understand love.”
Together, we jog to the place where the moonlight shimmers in melodic zigzags over the bronzing sea and the night is thinner than it is in the city of a million lights. Our jaws are clenched because breathing heavily in the cold is painful to our chins. He tells me secrets and the words empty from his throat into the atmosphere, where the water in his breath freezes into the night. “You’re a dragon,” I say, but I mean, “Winter is turning your voice to smoke.” As always, he doesn’t understand what I mean, but I have learned not to worry about it. He says, “You’re also a dragon,” and he means, “We have a lot in common.” I’m sorry that he doesn’t understand me the way I’ve learned to understand him.
He litters the air with secretive water droplets; the night gets thicker with his words. I want to tell him that I’ve never cared about a person more than I care for him, but I’ve learned to say nothing explicitly, because the art of finding metaphors in the simplicity of meaningless chatter is what convinced me that he cares about me.
“He can play the same treasure hunt that I played,” I think, “and when he wins, he’ll be the happiest person in the world.”
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC