"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.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
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.
13.6k
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.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC
disillusion
stings
and the echo
rings
in perpetual
anticipation
of inevitable
unreachable
expectation
we are human
and we will hurt
Oct 16, 2009
Oct 16, 2009 at 2:42 AM UTC
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.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
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.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
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.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
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?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
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
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
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
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
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.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
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!
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
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.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
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.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
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
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
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.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
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?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
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
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
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.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
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.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
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
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 5:28 AM UTC
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...
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
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
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
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!!!!!
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
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
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC