"isolationism" poems
So many succumb to Group Think
in such a way that it is dangerous.
From a young age, though I knew not yet of the notion,
I rejected opinions passed to me as fact
for the reason that opinions are subjective:
I did not hold as 'beautiful' what they told me I ought to.
I did not hold as 'wondrous' what they said was so.
I did not hold as 'difficult' what others had not yet accomplished.
I did not regard as 'easy' what others had yet done.
I was not serious when they told me I must be.
I made jokes when they deemed it distasteful.
I laughed at the hypocrisy, right in it's face.
I didn't just lay down and accept it as fate.
I did not like the music they told me to like.
I did not believe the biased history they taught as absolute and true.
I did not worship the mythic Gods they made to be literal.
I refused to pledge my allegiance in a brainwashed mass
to any flag of any nation under any God with Liberty and/or Justice for merely a few.
Over time I acquired my own taste for these things:
I grew to appreciate the discrepancy
between what I was told
and what I observed.
From there, I formulated my own opinions,
I became an Individualist.
A Heretic.
They sure don't make it easy.
Individualism, to me, does not connotate isolationism,
though with isolation can come self-awareness and self-discipline.
Individualism, to me, refers to finding one's own Path;
being a Heretic; staying true to your own Path.
To be a Rebel to undue Authority.
To not be afraid to defy your peers.
To be an Anarchist within one's self.
To practice Civil Disobedience.
Plus, the friends you will make if you live this way
will blow your ******* mind
and last you a lifetime.
-
Opinions are never concrete; they must curve and morph with the ebb and flow of your particular life.
Opinions and Taste must be relative to one's own personality and life if they are to be genuine.
Even still, the pull of the social tide is not so easily resisted:
You are succumbing to Group Think
even more than you might think
but I think, or at least I think (that) I think
that we can all overcome Group Think
if we would all just stop and think.
Don't you think?
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?
My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.
There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.
It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.
What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.
Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.
And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.
So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
Here I am again,
watching the scenery loop
on the carousel's third lap.
I'd rather not have paid the fair
but to have observed the hellish chaos
from outside this whirlwind of horses.
The eye of the storm doesn't exist here
when the stationary cavalry doesn't stop,
but I chose to enlist in your war.
My last tour ended with a bang,
body intact, but inside was torn,
and I said I'd "never fight the good fight again."
But here I am
caught in the searing winds,
scars refreshed, sobering and familiar.
How did I let this happen?
The Siren's song was so alluring,
with promises strewn on shores' crags.
Oh Helen, you made me face a thousand ships,
but when my eyes returned
you were merely a new mare on the merry-go-round.
I knew what to expect
when I chose to turn on the fleets,
but my childish dreams convinced me you were different.
Advisors had warned,
and instinct agreed,
but my trust has become my enemy.
So here I am again,
surrounded, not yet able to retreat,
but the battle is almost over.
This time I swear I'll never fight again.
You don't recognize peace until it returns,
and isolationism is the key to keeping it.
I promise I won't,
but first I must wait
for the looped music to cease.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
why do I even bother
when i wrote my poetry in a book it didnt matter
how many likes i had
how many views i grabbed
all that mattered was that i set my feelings free
but you see,
i am my own worst critic
writing my own scathing reviews until my wrists are arthritic
then what am i left with?
two *** wrists and an ache the size of Madrid
i dont know why i bother to publish my mind
another sick twisted jab at my soul aligned
with my heart
well my heart cant take it anymore
my mind is sore
time to give up the criticism
time to give up isolationism
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
3 Day Death March
It was 3 days ago I reported the death of my world,
an implosion of a not-so-super star like a white dwarf,
though small in size, the dwarf, like my brain is very dense,
the intense fusion of helium to carbon and oxygen left too much
floating matter for my cerebral understanding of the situation.
Well the 3 day death march has started. I finally have made the
connection from my cranium to my bleeding heart. I don't at this
point, know how I can explain the total confusion that has slowly
been absorbing my soul, without the massive usage of four-letter
explicitly descriptive words. I want to yell from the tallest building
in Malaysia how much pain I now feel. Challenging the gods to explain
their compassion for their children, when I did nothing to deserve
this much discomfort and confusion. Oh, I did allow myself the
indulgence of falling in love. How dare me. How ******* dare me.
Do I sound angry? Yes I am angry. As each day passes by, a little more
of my defensive shield disintegrates into nothingness,
exposing me to the truths that are staring me in the eye.
It is over, although the binary counterpart had shown some weakness,
logic overtook that temporary faux pas, a few morsels of fodder
where thrown to me to nibble on, and ease the isolationism
feeling that was slowly absorbing the mind and body.
I managed to control my tuning into recent messages that were
transmitted at first, showing my intestinal fortitude, displaying
my control of the situation. By the second day, a little more slippage of bestowers will, kept hopes high that maybe this wasn't over.
The dreaded third day arrived finally, and confirmation was obvious.
The separation has been confirmed. The messages have stopped.
The sledge hammer has pounded my submission to the ground.
I ******* hate this. From ecstasy to the out house.
I never signed on for this. I never asked for this. I never wanted this.
The 3 day death march ***** big time. Don't know if a 4th day
will arrive. At this point, I really don't give a **** Love *****
Gomer Lepoet...
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 8:46 PM UTC
I strangely find solace in solitude.
Not isolationism, for people's company suits me.
However, I manage to remove my mind of distractions
that are presented to me by the presence of so many.
For being alone serves no purpose; there, knowledge does not thrive.
A lone soul knows one view, so one of many tales go not told.
By one's self there is no conflict; therefore, no resolution,
No struggle, no calm, no peace, no relief, no love- makes us cold.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
An emptiness
Defined by isolationism...
A lonliness
Defined by desire...
A lack
Defined by me...
A desire
To fill the emotions
With substantial satiation
Enough to satisfy
The animal within
'Beast mode' never ends for me
A horror
Committed by me
Condemned by most
Cursed by all.....
Is this me?
Is this path mine?
Am I destined...
To be a sojourner all my days
Is it predetermined?
Or is this a path yet to be defined
By Him
And me....
Is it past that time?
The time or redefining reality?
....
I will redefine myself
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Angie’s blind eyes wander aimlessly in their sockets,
one white as the belly of a snake, the other a pointless blue.
She has one dress she wears every day, and a cane that is
without tip and has lost most of its red paint.
In the building she has memorized even the pale illusions
well enough to scoot about without hesitation.
She likes no one.
She likes me.
Thinks she is JFK, talks of herself quite lucidly and with
deadly accurateness.
Found herself a spirit-lover, asked me to perform a
marriage ceremony for them. What the hell, it’s a sad
life with no one in it, although that does not apply to me,
who loves my self-imposed isolationism beyond reason.
I find a pretty stone broach, a stuffed teddy-bear holding a
red satin heart that says, “I love you…” and a doll with
ribbons in its hair - these were her dowry.
I say the words over my open Bible, inviting blasphemy
to call out my name.
Now, she has become a Velcro-shadow.
When I am ill her zeal to cure me is fanaticism incarnate.
Foolish woman, I - who chose her own path to trod,
but along the way tripped over a crippled bird that is sure
to peck me to death.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
they sit
anxious,
attitudinal,
replete in
hospital gowns,
almost glowing,
angelic in their
whiteness.
below the knee,
the young queen
bee wears peach
fuzz.
my own grasshopper
has a forest of leg hair.
(puberty' s gift)
they look
at one another
not quite
like two strangers
at a singles bar,
but almost.
the moment dies
seconds after birth.
they transition from
insects,
scrawny, gangly teenagers;
becoming hawks.
now,
they perch,
staring at one another,
eyes full of defiance.
each one measuring
the other's plight
against their own.
inspections concluded,
they retreat,
separately,
each
back into their
own fauna of
electronic isolationism.
***
-JBClaywell
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Our yesterdays are foreign shores,
With unusual customs.
Among us are worm-holers,
Using foreign words
Like *Whitey, ****** ***** Indian.*
Archaic phrases,
*A woman's place...
A child should...
Are you a man...*
Our boundaries have shifted.
Isolationism, provincialism, racism,
All derogatory isms
Are placed in a time capsule,
Not to be opened by this civilization,
This new country for ex-pats.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
i think the americans ought to relearn
their policy on isolationism -
the chinese have already overtook
the americans on the grounds of
national capitalism -
and what a ****** opinion this
ends up being,..
the only way americans will
retain their americanism is by
isolating themselves from thee rest
of the world,
lest they become the lingua franca
that equates itself as merely
lingua fornicata -
no, i'm not the ***** of french joke
with bilinguals, or mono-linguals,
or mono-linguals = americans,
or three language speakers being
tri-linguals,
it just means: you own a *******
**********
how's that?!
lingua franca became lingua fornicata...
i swear to god the americans ought
to rekindle the isolationist policies
that FDR made real...
to live in a monochromatic world
is about as interesting as
living next to 20 taj mahals
within a 20sqm radius...
i have more of those
marble monstrosities in my head,
abstract...
americans ought to relearn
isolationism...
just to slow the **** down
on the globalist agendas...
given the made in china
national capitalism,
which was only perfected via
socialism...
funny...
nationalistic capitalism only
emerged from socialism...
well, you save capitalistic
countries via pumping them money rather than
pride....
english doesn't actually
encourage ******* why would it,
it already has ******
it's lingua fornicata...
perhaps, once upon a time it
was lingua franca...
now what
the english economises is *****
everything else is made in china;
the english used to be the marco polos of
this world, now? they're the don giovannis.
don't you worry about me,
the slavic women adore the fact that
they can be the ****** of
the kings of europe...
hey, i'm done in 70 years
or less given the chance i shorten this
prison sentence by 20+ years...
if i take to the fetish of prayer...
which part of the story am i take
honour for?
the part that i die,
or the part that i am born,
but have no allegiance to life?
mesmerise me, indulgence me,
tell me the difference.
i will be content with the last
breath, prior to any breath akin
to mine: take its first.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist
*Its headlines that read like this
“As Biden nears victory, worlds hopes
For end to American isolationism*
It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie, rather than to surrender?
When the American truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views: He pen is waiting
to announce the winner, (who would it be)
Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
But to a mad scientist: it says progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientists should be held responsible for his action.
As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as the world acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come
it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power: is that what we voted for?
is this what we are dying for? Is that most people dreams?
Trumps , Biden supporters face off in Detroit
Headlines like these make a poet pen trembles..
*"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"*
We are still waiting for the winner..
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 6:36 AM UTC
Bathing in my own hair,
Basking in my own filth,
Remembering, painstakingly,
The roads that I’ve built.
Was that glance purely friendly?
Or was it a mask of contempt?
Memories, haunting me,
As I uncover the truth.
Bathing in my own hair,
Caressing me, tormenting me,
Reminding me of all I’ve lost,
As it flies into the air.
The water flows in and out,
My mood goes up and down.
Life’s rollercoaster is sickening,
My motion sickness, my undoing.
Entangled in the fibers,
Surrounded by liars,
That claimed to be my friend.
Isolationism,
Personal despotism,
All due to a bitter end.
Bathing in my own hair,
My failures cascading.
Basking in my self-worth,
Esteem breaking.
If I lost what little I had,
Perhaps, I’m just not meant to hold,
Friendship in my grasp.
From my experience, it doesn’t last.
The waters ripple,
My tears crippling me.
I wonder, would I have been happier,
If we were never to meet?
Bathing in my own hair,
Tying my wrists to my chest.
Vulnerable as my demons,
Take me to their lair.
They beat me, chastise me,
Critique me and torment me,
Till I’m nothing more than when my friends left me.
Isolationism,
Personal despotism.
Bathing in my own hair,
Watching my pain float around me,
It encircles me, constantly reminding me of my plight.
Is it being too cowardly,
To block myself from the light.
A hermit out on his own;
A lonely monarch who sits on his throne;
A beggar searching for a home;
All of these end up alone.
Bathing in my own hair,
Bound and gagged by my bleeding heart.
I thought I had found my place,
Now I’m stranded back at the start.
Far too late—to reach out now,
Everyone’s floating on their own, separate clouds,
While I remain on the ground,
Contemplating the pain I’ve found.
Yet, bitterly and ironically,
I crave the memories,
Because they remind me,
Of a time when I was happy.
I wash my body in the filth,
Recalling the euphoria.
Bathing in my own hair,
Scrubbing the fabric across my skin.
It burns, the soap is just like acid.
Maybe I don’t wish to be clean,
But to be seen,
And not abandoned repeatedly.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 9:56 PM UTC