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"disillusion" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
it takes a lot of desperation dissatisfaction and disillusion to write a few good poems. it's not for everybody either to write it or even to read it.
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13.6k
Poetry
Written in stone Your words In this child’s heart Too young to understand  It wasn’t me It was PTSD How could I make you see  It was never the way you were thinking  It was truly innocent Too young to understand  It wasn’t me It was PTSD Pedal to the metal Heading toward disaster  Fear and confusion  Too young to understand  It wasn’t me It was PTSD  Knife to your wrist Begging and pleading  Tears overflowing tiny faces  Too young to understand  It wasn’t me  It was PTSD Anger and disillusion You’re chasing me Questioning who I am Too young to understand  It wasn’t me It was PTSD And when my eyes finally see I can’t be angry  I can’t blame  Because after all It wasn’t you  It was PTSD.
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Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC
It was PTSD
disillusion stings and the echo rings in perpetual anticipation of inevitable unreachable expectation we are human and we will hurt
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Oct 16, 2009
Oct 16, 2009 at 2:42 AM UTC
expectation
We held hands as time's sand passed between. Night chocked the last sun beams. Our conversation was pertinent to the dwindling red wine bottle. As the moon glazed shore began to roar, she whispered "Let's cuddle." I dropped you, holding her, and thought "Oh" and began to coddle. I wrapped myself around her like a shell to a turtle and she began to nestle on my chest. I guessed the indigestion came from the Bordeaux bottom. Boy, was I wrong. See, as I lay with her, forgetting about you, I remembered blood is thicker than water. The loves we choose are stronger than ones We've fallen into. I wasn't falling there, underneath the stars, next to the parked car. I was laying. I was contemplating as the wind was spraying the lake into the air. I came to the conclusion I was in an illusion of  love. Confounded by smoke and reflections from movie magicians. She looked up to me and I guess she could see my reality crumbling in the breeze. She asked if I was ok. My slight smile alluded I was and we laid in love until the sun's intrusion.
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May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
Moonlight Disillusion
Warning: Use dis list in context. You decide on which side you fall. disappear disregard disaster displace disqualify disrepair disturb dissipate disability dispose dismal distribute distrust disturb discriminate discuss disdain disguise dishearten disinherit disown disparage disagree disgruntle disclose discolour dispute disarm discover disassemble disadvantage disallow dispossess discontent discontinue disrespect disincline discomfort disrepute dishonest disillusion dishonor dismiss disobey disjoin disappoint discipline discord discern discrete disfigure disconnect disapprove discharge disbar disease discord disfavor disengage disassociate discipline discount disembody displace dissaray disembowel discombobulate discredit discourse disentangle disenfranchise disembark discard disburse disbelief discover disable disagree disintegrate dismay dispense dislodge disclaimer disapprove dissatisfy disrupt dispel dislike dismantle disloyal disbatch disrobe disperse display disaprove disciple disavow disconcert disinfect disorder dismal dismember displease dissemble disunity dislocate distort distrust distress dissolute disassociate distill discect (?) distemper distain distasteful distraught dissolve dissonant dissuade And dis isn't de end.
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Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
Is Dis Good or Is Dis Bad (a partici-poem)
Beware the bitter idiot-- That fellow with the sour     Mind, Cankered by disillusion, And feelings of Left behind. So life may not be everything As planned-- It does, after all, arrive in Installments called the day. One of these is enough to try     To understand, One enough for this thin Vessel of stardust clay. His voice is but a drone, Nothing but rancor and filth     Ride upon his tongue. Complaint the engine of his     Tone, The wormwood ballad of Pitiful woe he sings and has     Ever sung. He will not be mistaken, For the street tough is at his     Very core. He will not allow to awaken The malleable man of his     Youth and yore. And so this fellow who has Shut his soul off, Stands in front of his mirror and cries. He's too proud to unhand the Lance of the scoff-- Boldness is his favorite lie.
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Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
The Favored Lie
there was a sparkle in her eyes I saw it I saw it no one else paid her any attention and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands unfulfilled starving hysterical barren barred so she resorted to magic the crazy stuff of existence like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart and when it found her not despair shook the earth around her sorrowful body permeating disillusion confusion immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing lonely lonely and bottle caps launched from her fingernails from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing splitting her glowing veins and sweetening her ever-kind clueless knowledgeable brain brain brain and where was the world?
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Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
What Destroyed Her
I live on the edge Driving into a cliff in my imagination Here the game plays Over and over from one triumph to the next I regret I forget Disappointments revive each play I lose myself Upon the ledge I had stood and gazed At the power But what is the use When nothing ever stays We laugh how hollow we are How nothing matters while we hold back the tears We emphasize the importance of Some distraction Then we belittle our actions for ones judgement We play this game Of desire and destruction While sinking deeper in numbing of pain We pretend the world deepends on our play To hide the fact that we are fading into oblivion One step at a time
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Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
Sports disillusion
The emotions of a human Can be lightly Played and strummed It can resemble the steady beat of a heart The sound cannot be replicated Repeated or duplicated Once the disturbing melody starts The highest strings Penetrates the mind Representing the sadness and anxiety For now you are quite alone The shrillness will increase in strength But will remain dark in tone The lower strings They are the loss of hope Relaying disillusion These strings are taut Specifically for you In my composition I will most certainly use them To complete my vengeful melodies The strands I pluck and choose Shall be your life's situation For you, my sly one are the harp And I am the musician I strum the strings one by one In a familiar rhythm, you know I am smiling at your rapid demise As your heart implodes silently and slow I will continue to play you Throughout your life My tunes filled with retribution Have no doubt We both know it is true You are the harp And I am the musician The strange and eerie song I play Notes chose for their intent For all the damage you have caused my dear The strings I choose will represent Now I perform this song For your blackened soul Upon which there will be many lesions Till the echoes of this music Shall drive you into madness For you are the harp my darling I am the musician This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
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Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
You are the Harp
The emotions of a human Can be lightly Played and strummed It can resemble the steady beat of a heart The sound cannot be replicated Repeated or duplicated Once the disturbing melody starts The highest strings Penetrates the mind Representing the sadness and anxiety For now you are quite alone The shrillness will increase in strength But will remain dark in tone The lower strings They are the loss of hope Relaying disillusion These strings are taut Specifically for you In my composition I will most certainly use them To complete my vengeful melodies The strands I pluck and choose Shall be your life's situation For you, my sly one are the harp And I am the musician I strum the strings one by one In a familiar rhythm, you know I am smiling at your rapid demise As your heart implodes silently and slow I will continue to play you Throughout your life My tunes filled with retribution Have no doubt We both know it is true You are the harp And I am the musician The strange and eerie song I play Notes chose for their intent For all the damage you have caused my dear The strings I choose will represent Now I perform this song For your blackened soul Upon which there will be many lesions Till the echoes of this music Shall drive you into madness For you are the harp my darling I am the musician This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
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50
Crown Chakra; thorny, Disillusion Manifest: carrot on a stick. It does tend to feel as if my Third Eye is blight; a personal Hell. I seek to sometimes use my Throat Chakra to rend Shadow asunder. At times, so it seems, Heart Chakra seeks mere Pleasure; hollow and fleeting. Sometimes, it feels as if my Solar Plexus becomes a Black Hole. O, Sacral Chakra, Intuition's Harbinger, mislead me no more! Root Chakra; so raw, so unadulterated; such adultery. Considering I only get only this one chance, I must persevere.
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Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Black Hole Plexus
In every world you unveil the memories To remember our deepest longings, The fortunate accident to grown old With another soul faultless for you. The unaccustomed feeling is pure To disillusion the hate reality, The empty soul is yet somewhere Passionate enough to awaken life. Go get it from the holy basil Spotless enough to compromise!
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Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
remember to comeback
Little rag doll in poses I place, smiles non linear lipstick is smeared not as it should be perfection is not on the features as statically smiling. Meagerly patched doll how you are in my thoughts. Knotted hair ill placed bobbles that don't show the best of the features frozen on your hollow face. mismatched clothes not in a way a woman of choosing would place, odd socks an ankle one, poppy long stocking contrasting is size and colour but you'll never know. I look at you, a Picasso of imagery displaced on your face. Looking like you got dressed in the closet blindfolded and alone. My little rag doll I strategic leave in a lonely place. I collect these porcine eyes drained of essence, I open your thoughts and they are discarded in a bag. Later your thoughts will feed my hungry dog. I leave you empty vacant as you should be, my rag doll with uninhabited motivation. hollowed shell of what you used to be, blank stares between you and me go silently. They find my dolls in there houses distorted like my vison of how sights are seen. A play house of disillusion, my dolls are my creations come will you be a rag doll for me.
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Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
My Disturbed Little Rag Doll
I am an escaped prisoner from barred disillusion, A personable recluse fighting the illusion Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion. I wonder how it is that I find optimism alone, When collective pessimistic thoughts condone The woeful tales that howl and moan. I hear voices of people that aren’t there, Yet find myself in calmness aware Despite their tormented accusational affair. I see ideals living and thriving out there Even when apathy or indifference ensnare Battered hearts and worn out minds in despair I want nothing more than to ‘want’ so desperately I hold onto desire so restlessly, That I’ve tired the being of my entity, I am an anomalous paradox captive to the sea Where waters churn in active disharmony, Yet comfort as it may my tranquility. I pretend that I’ve already staked my global legacy As if my words, thoughts, and feelings, Have changed the world entirely. I feel everything as I believe it should be, Riding the waves of intensity In emotionally humble serendipity, I touch the stars in remote prose, Wandering the vast expanses without close, Wherever my mind goes, it goes. I worry about the future of humanity, As if I was merely here to watch observantly From some unknown eternity. I cry for those in silent pain With fake smiles of disdain Who dare not speak for thought in vain. I am a quiet observer of the human condition Checking and balancing sedition Though never granting my submission. I understand the fallibility of the mind, Gathering as many perspectives I can find, Theorizing everything to which I’m inclined. I say it’s all relative but it’s all relevant Prone to be dominated by the prevalent Missing the subtleties that are heaven sent. I dream when I’m awake through my ideals, Even when they’re still just spinning wheels, Hoping they gain traction as time reveals. I try to be better than the day before, As that’s the best way to keep score, When the world has us compared to others so much more. I hope my legacy is genuine, I regret nothing even when I sin, As time wears down my wrinkled grin. I am only human, to live and to die, That’s about all we can be or rely, And honestly this notion breaths me a sigh.
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Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
I Am Poem
I am an escaped prisoner from barred disillusion, A personable recluse fighting the illusion Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion. I wonder how it is that I find optimism alone, When collective pessimistic thoughts condone The woeful tales that howl and moan. I hear voices of people that aren’t there, Yet find myself in calmness aware Despite their tormented accusational affair. I see ideals living and thriving out there Even when apathy or indifference ensnare Battered hearts and worn out minds in despair I want nothing more than to ‘want’ so desperately I hold onto desire so restlessly, That I’ve tired the being of my entity, I am an anomalous paradox captive to the sea Where waters churn in active disharmony, Yet comfort as it may my tranquility. I pretend that I’ve already staked my global legacy As if my words, thoughts, and feelings, Have changed the world entirely. I feel everything as I believe it should be, Riding the waves of intensity In emotionally humble serendipity, I touch the stars in remote prose, Wandering the vast expanses without close, Wherever my mind goes, it goes. I worry about the future of humanity, As if I was merely here to watch observantly From some unknown eternity. I cry for those in silent pain With fake smiles of disdain Who dare not speak for thought in vain. I am a quiet observer of the human condition Checking and balancing sedition Though never granting my submission. I understand the fallibility of the mind, Gathering as many perspectives I can find, Theorizing everything to which I’m inclined. I say it’s all relative but it’s all relevant Prone to be dominated by the prevalent Missing the subtleties that are heaven sent. I dream when I’m awake through my ideals, Even when they’re still just spinning wheels, Hoping they gain traction as time reveals. I try to be better than the day before, As that’s the best way to keep score, When the world has us compared to others so much more. I hope my legacy is genuine, I regret nothing even when I sin, As time wears down my wrinkled grin. I am only human, to live and to die, That’s about all we can be or rely, And honestly this notion breaths me a sigh.
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54
most nights i'm only loving you in fragments, i'm only loving you in death i wander your mind like a child in search of it's mother, but you were orphanages not loving homes only drugs can compare to the feeling of disillusion i had when i was with you. i love you, i crave you
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Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
ecstasy
Love and confusion confounding the illusion of trust in a systematic regime which they deny ever existed but constantly promise to improve upon. The hat's shape and color may change, but our inability to exchange their deranged platforms for a stabler form of expression exposes our disillusion with dispossession and our embracing being complacent in the face of our rulers' all-encompassing corruption.
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Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Same as it ever was
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled… Out ****** spot! Out, I say! I must regress to becoming the white blanket. I must know nothing but God. A simple cloth. A towelette. Rags! Rags! Rags! … …. …God? …Hello? …Is it too late to become …plain?
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Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
"The Fall of the Watchers"
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled… Out ****** spot! Out, I say! I must regress to becoming the white blanket. I must know nothing but God. A simple cloth. A towelette. Rags! Rags! Rags! … …. …God? …Hello? …Is it too late to become …plain?
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15
Is humanism Utopian? You really have to think about it. Or is it rather more dystopian? No, then I think you’d never doubt it. It seems that disbelief is best. Humanism owes a debt to thinkers of the Enlightenment, although I haven’t paid it yet, I think of it as my entitlement to settle it at some behest. I very early cleared my mind of Kant, experiencing a vast relief, approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant; removing knowledge to allow belief; the opposite of what he had expressed. It occurred to me I ought to dig up (or should I say instead ex-hume?) what constitutes at least an egg-cup- full of wisdom that I might consume with non-platonic zest. But wondering how on earth to do so and thinking he might hold the key, I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau and set sail for my destiny, while trying not to feel depressed. Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu and failed to still my latent fears. And thus I felt no need to rescue Adam Smith (morality-obsessed). To put Descartes before the Horse- men of the Apocalypse War, famine, pestilence and worse. Who could guess it would eclipse my thought, wherefore I was oppressed. Or take the case of Denis Diderot a friend of Hume and others seedier. and one you might consider so rash as to produce an encyclopedia to get his knowledge off his chest. That precious quality of truth was Mary Ann’s# description of it. It would not take a Sherlock sleuth to simply thus produce a conviction of it: an elementary request. I cut my questing teeth on Russell. His secular logic had a profound effect and seemed to stir each red corpuscle inhabiting this fervid non-sect- arian but doubting breast. I later turned my eye on Dawkins, and his concern with my divine delusion. A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings validate my disillusion and emphasise an ill-starred quest. And so I felt the pointlessness of it. Progress is the best end for a man to see And belief simply produced less profit for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy. So, in the end, I acquiesced. #Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
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Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
NUMINOSITY (OR HUMANISM OWES A DEBT TO THE ENLIGHTENMENT)
Is humanism Utopian? You really have to think about it. Or is it rather more dystopian? No, then I think you’d never doubt it. It seems that disbelief is best. Humanism owes a debt to thinkers of the Enlightenment, although I haven’t paid it yet, I think of it as my entitlement to settle it at some behest. I very early cleared my mind of Kant, experiencing a vast relief, approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant; removing knowledge to allow belief; the opposite of what he had expressed. It occurred to me I ought to dig up (or should I say instead ex-hume?) what constitutes at least an egg-cup- full of wisdom that I might consume with non-platonic zest. But wondering how on earth to do so and thinking he might hold the key, I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau and set sail for my destiny, while trying not to feel depressed. Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu and failed to still my latent fears. And thus I felt no need to rescue Adam Smith (morality-obsessed). To put Descartes before the Horse- men of the Apocalypse War, famine, pestilence and worse. Who could guess it would eclipse my thought, wherefore I was oppressed. Or take the case of Denis Diderot a friend of Hume and others seedier. and one you might consider so rash as to produce an encyclopedia to get his knowledge off his chest. That precious quality of truth was Mary Ann’s# description of it. It would not take a Sherlock sleuth to simply thus produce a conviction of it: an elementary request. I cut my questing teeth on Russell. His secular logic had a profound effect and seemed to stir each red corpuscle inhabiting this fervid non-sect- arian but doubting breast. I later turned my eye on Dawkins, and his concern with my divine delusion. A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings validate my disillusion and emphasise an ill-starred quest. And so I felt the pointlessness of it. Progress is the best end for a man to see And belief simply produced less profit for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy. So, in the end, I acquiesced. #Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
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61
Here I sit again drained out, washed up and fingers worn; left to wonder where the time has gone. This disillusion I have dreamt of before and I remain unfulfilled holding steady for another day but I wait in discontent Soft and steady spiral shoot me up to the heavens trigger pressed i rifle towards the skyline In search of the unknown I fly around aimlessly plucking the clouds from the sky one by one Shimmering twilight another day has since come to pass. Without a hault, I am going nowhere fast. Puppet of this upset dynasty, I parade around a "united" soldier fallen to shambles under a shameless facade. They have stolen the dignity of our fathers without blinking. Onward we must march before this ship is done sinking.
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Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
Upset Dynasty
1-DESIRE:                                             4-UNCARE: All of me now desires,be deep           Distracted ideals,a nature human                                                         Wholly Inside of you,Pervade             Heavenly woven synergies broken                                       Your mind, limbs, Heart, all pores      Power of pleasures mortal, killing magic                               Soak in your salty sweat warm           Snapping wands,bonds dearly formed Mold dancing to a one united.             Sweet temptress transient, conquering care. 2-PASSION:                                                       5- DISILLUSION: Bodies’ lithe now twined serpentine         We betrayed, cheated US, in neglect, Straining desperate, for a merger             Holes in hearts bleeding precious Love, Spiritual, souls both for unison striving    Admitting indifference cruel, ruining stealthily Hearts two pumping as one to fuse.          Our paradise gained, won so easy, lost terribly. Sacred is everything, this carnality too.     Chanced eternity wasted, destiny unmeant made. 3-LOVE:                                                                 6- REALITY: Ensconced tight in warmth’s mutual,           Tempered in time space, 3-LOVE loyal savior sole,   All is for sacrifice on our loves altar,              Enshrined indestructible, in being, memories relived. Suspended thoughts, egos burnt ash            Pleasures now cynically felt, loves truly responded, A Love Mindless meditating deep,                No dilemma human; I flow generous, as an epitaph, In some state mystically enlightened.            Thanking destiny for this reclaim, my love,faring well.
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Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Confessions of a blessed Hedonist Part-II.(Love reclaimed Universal)
1-DESIRE:                                             4-UNCARE: All of me now desires,be deep           Distracted ideals,a nature human                                                         Wholly Inside of you,Pervade             Heavenly woven synergies broken                                       Your mind, limbs, Heart, all pores      Power of pleasures mortal, killing magic                               Soak in your salty sweat warm           Snapping wands,bonds dearly formed Mold dancing to a one united.             Sweet temptress transient, conquering care. 2-PASSION:                                                       5- DISILLUSION: Bodies’ lithe now twined serpentine         We betrayed, cheated US, in neglect, Straining desperate, for a merger             Holes in hearts bleeding precious Love, Spiritual, souls both for unison striving    Admitting indifference cruel, ruining stealthily Hearts two pumping as one to fuse.          Our paradise gained, won so easy, lost terribly. Sacred is everything, this carnality too.     Chanced eternity wasted, destiny unmeant made. 3-LOVE:                                                                 6- REALITY: Ensconced tight in warmth’s mutual,           Tempered in time space, 3-LOVE loyal savior sole,   All is for sacrifice on our loves altar,              Enshrined indestructible, in being, memories relived. Suspended thoughts, egos burnt ash            Pleasures now cynically felt, loves truly responded, A Love Mindless meditating deep,                No dilemma human; I flow generous, as an epitaph, In some state mystically enlightened.            Thanking destiny for this reclaim, my love,faring well.
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18
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline. In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear. This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments? Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo . Words Of Harfouchism
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Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 5:28 AM UTC
Disillusion
today I had my tea with no sugar strange no difference everyone must realize how quickly it can all disappear the woman, the man, the job, the cat, the boy with leukemia in Hong Kong, your chinaware crushed against the hardwood floor, the blizzard, the aged wine in your cellar, your beauty, your wit, 3 birds on the telephone wire and all your left with is desperation dissatisfaction & disillusion and the waitress with kind eyes shaking you you awake in the middle of the night asking what is wrong what could possibly be wrong and you reply I don't know I don't know I don't know...
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Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
& then the day was night
Distant shadows, Traveling into the absence of light. Illuminating a pathway of sorrow, Imagining the beauty of Helen’s sight. Diving into the abyss, Searching for lost remains. Encountering a series of melancholic words, Reliving one's past fate. Salvaging sunken letters, Written in Cephalopod ink. Subsiding into Davy Jones' locker, In quest of the skeleton key. Pursuing the Sirens voice, Inducing a tidal wave. Awakening to disillusion, Anchoring hope to reality once again. By: Michael M. De La Fuente
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Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
Skeleton Key
Memories of past magnificence A pall now hangs over her Echoes of screams in the west Decomposed disillusion Inhumanity Insecurity Split personality Search warrants for the haves Kicked in doors for the have nots Mr. Officer……Mi innocent The muzzle of your gun has me reticent From slavery our ancestors did run In the streets the blood of my countrymen run When will di trouble dun She has been battered and scarred Her name feathered and tarred While the gleam in her eyes is diminished She is by no means finished Still the heartbeat of a nation Vibrant, trendsetting, schizophrenic Sometimes there is panic in this state of chronic Some more equity is required in my city The financial capital What about human capital? Some deemed worthless Existing in communities of sacrificial lambs. Others are sacred cows…..Wolves in sheepskin Who pollute the air with noxious verbiage White collar facades hide evil intent. She will rise again. If we have the will and the way My city……KINGSTON!!!!!
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Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
Kingston
Here you are Your shadowed silhouette in the door A frame I did forget once before But you have a haunting way about you A charming kind of way about you With a heartless kind of evil crooked smile The things I had to learn over time But I memorized your face as it kissed mine I recall just how sweet you taste divine These things I wish I could erase Your lust did make me fall from grace Because you have a haunting way about you A clever kind of trick about you You had me hypnotized for nearly years You somehow blistered me with flooding tears I gave into your disillusion Ran right back to your abusing Because you have a haunting way about you A seductive sinful way about you These thing I had to learn over time But I somehow miss the days when you were mine
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May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
Voodoo