"nullity" poems
*feathers or snowflakes
nighttime,
unimportantly,
cannot differentiate
on the 16th floor
balcony
each an individualized n-vite
fall downy into down
of snow blankets of
freezing releasing cold comfort,
ice cream for the body entire
oh yes,
a sad one penned,
the nullity of his
throbbing everything,
sore tempted for quenching
by the soft permanence of white,
most tempting,
soft offering a laundering downy state
they say
see the good stuff
do,
but I* feel *the bad stuff
with heartbeat regularity,
temple pounding repetitive asking
what's the next best
and other naming questions
the way in is not
way out...
this hole I dug dark,
no hand holds, dank, elongated
this time
happy you,
brevity suits
for the downy fall
fleeting floating abrupt and
suggesting
wonderfully right-sided answers
to questions his names asks
where is the humble path,
where is shelter at long last..*.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
the trouble is
sleep doesn't
ever seem to last
long enough
no matter how many
hours are lost
to its nothingness
discarded willingly
to the vague
and the vacuous
some might say
for dream's sake
but debate remains
around the benefit
relevance or reverence
to be found
in that logic
waking up always
brings with it
a desire for more
for a return to
a form of non-being
where presence
and nullity
have equal sway
to be
and
not to be
ego
id
superego
free of interference
from that backwards
rationality
of consciousness
Jan 19, 2023
Jan 19, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
I'm so unique nobody could be me.
The words I say reflect what I see.
I know you; I know what you're thinking.
I see the light, but I don't know why it's shining.
Sometimes, I know, I get too upset
When wrestling with the puzzles that are in my head.
My heart could love, if not for the dread.
It's like a blade that's doing me a chining.
But I can't blame it on the rock-and roll,
It's the only thing that keeps me whole,
Lord knows, it's the only, only thing that's holy.
No you can't say I'm like the other guys,
I was living large before it was fashion wise.
You know, the angels treaded far behind me lightly.
The gossamer was endless and nestling to all it neared.
The tingling within the earth let usher forth a worthless beauty to every person of it's time; but which was to be unknowingly priceless to the lives yet to come.
And the prophet cried before the day he realized he was to die, the hour before he was to find...
Relief.
The automatic writing happens when you give it up,
And you never even know the meaning til it comes to pass.
But divination is a gift, even as the gossamer blinds your eyes.
And the fiber dissolves into the nullity.
When then spasm has become as the tapered wind, there is left but nothing.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
*There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block*
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
I accost daylight, reviling in the promiscuity of the waken world
Come, be absent with me, enjoy the splendor of the famine
The only pleasure we’ll allow ourselves is that of a despondent heart
As we weaken the bonds that chain us, we’ll destroy ourselves
How can I rationalize my desires, their innocence shames me
To be reprehensible, oh such a glorious way to be
We ran through the streets encased in neon luminance
You, with your hope and rebellion
Me, in awe of you
This truancy, this desolate homage to backroads and swindled affairs
It leaves a longing to wear her fur coat, my makeup soiled beautifully
Those nights of dreams, and dreams, and dreams, resurrect disenchanted
As I lay aching, biting the the cold steel for the knowledge of ones price
The nullity welcomes a confusion, searching for a fragment of familiarity
Wanting and wishing back the stale taste of the endless mornings
I’ll bring with me the calm, the reassurance of futile worth
The length is calculated, the smirking clock relishing in his dismal pace
We trade the dampened moss as the stars scoff at our ignorance
They whisper, piercing the darkness with their reminder
three moons, alas three moons
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
the good poems
are constructed from fragments
of painful experiences
times when i felt numb and nothing
there's thought,
structure
or lack of anything entirely
the good poems
remind me of a time
that i can't really remember
i'm going back to this pain
because it's familiar
i remember what desolation looks like
i remember what silent screams ripped air in two and
my skin apart
the good poems tell of a time
where i was mentally so far gone
when i had a concrete concept of the darkness enfolding me but no concept of what scary was
the good poems aren't really good poems
there's just emotion there
i felt so much
and it hurt to touch
if i can somehow make sense of it all
rewrite my scars into fresh cuts again
remember the nullity i fell into
maybe i'll learn how to feel again
leave the past in the past and bury it with a hatchet
no need to dig up all the skeletons you once hid in your closet
you let chaos rest, why disturb it?
it never escapes you
i talk about past pains
like it's something i crave
what a foolish thing to want, to need
to thirst for to feel whole again
this pain
i think they call it growing pain
like the pain of physically shaking off an old skin that no longer fits
the skin i felt comfortable in and the skin i abused
so a new skin can grow
i miss the familiarity
and my limits
the good poems
weren't good at all
but in my head
they're good because
if i can fathom images of what trembling nights felt like
out of shaky breaths
that's better than when i can't
and if the only thing i ever write about for as long as i live is pain
then so be it
they say that you spend your whole life
rewriting the first poem you ever loved
perhaps
my definition of love
is synonymous with pain
perhaps pain
is synonymous with life
if that's true
then the good poems remind me of a time
when i was so so alive that i was on the brink
of death
-
-rgp
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC
It must be dark
out here in the cold penumbra,
where mile after mile
no one smiles,
dots and loops,
dots and loops,
a kind of blissful nullity,
beautiful and pointless,
wearing at the edges
it almost stings,
seclusion unraveling
at the underground in us all,
aubade aberrations abound,
challenging the orthodoxy
of the troublesome
morning road,
but should this near-life experience
hydroplane toward
another mineshaft, it helps to know
less is less, not more.
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 2:54 PM UTC
I had no No in my vocabulary,
No veto power,
No nix, no nullity, no negation.
I was the King of Affirmation,
Yes to this, yes to that.
I thought No would cut me off from love,
Friendship, belonging.
I couldn’t say that word to anyone,
Not nobody not nohow.
I was the Wizard of Yes.
The Emperor of Agreement.
The Yes Man to the universe.
What was I?
A character in someone else’s play,
Puppeting my way through life,
Following a program I did not write.
I had to have a word that was my own,
A firm, strong, stubborn word,
To crash the program, buck the tide.
Now I’m ready to know No.
For No has that stopping power.
No is the Final Word.
No tells you in no uncertain terms,
What you really want.
This is me, it says.
These are my boundaries.
This is my true and real self.
I’m in love with No.
No, No, No, No, No, No.
I like the way I say it, and I know
That only by shouting my No
Can I say Yes to Me.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
The endless pondering of Fridays,
Spills into the late night.
Precious time lost,
Losing light.
While the city is in love,
People on the street corners,
Friends, lovers and everything in between.
Here I am on my work week,
Waiting for the 8th day.
Stay with me but no,
Things I wish were said comes back to me.
A burst of tears and laughter,
Trying to douse the loud sirens in my head.
Lost on me,
Todays society.
Unending conversations,
Quotes and notations,
A web of scattered nullity,
Clouds all over my senses.
Here lies.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 10:47 PM UTC
The swingsets,
the relief from the world's hypocrisy,
the only place I can feel as if I am a bird in the sky,
the bird that flies it's own pace,
acknowledging it's goal, but keeping it's distance.
The swingsets,
the make me know how it feels to die,
how it feels to go to Heaven,
and how it feels to fall off and go to Hell,
the contrast between the igneous, dry land,
and the subzero, wet heaven,
if I even believed in that ****
The swingsets,
they set me free,
from how the people came to abhor me,
or how they came to have intimacy of me,
in reality,I only like those who present a medium of their standards,
for I am not perfect enough for those,
who try to exterminate me,
for those slaughter my wall I had constructed,
like the Roman's had done to Rome,
so carefully, and in coordination,
so no one would hate me.
The swingsets,
to make my ill intentions,
and my good will fade,
so I will both realize and reject the idea,
the abstraction,
the truth,
of the concept of nothingness,
nullity,
void,
because I want to be isolated,
but I do not want to be or see nothing,
so please world, continue to grow,
and
at least
leave me a swingset
for all
of my sins,
and virtue.
The swingsets,
where every child has grown up,
where every adolescent has matured,
where every adult felt nostalgic,
for they shall live on in existence.
The ,
it has continued.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
temere -
they speak lightly,
their dulcet voices competing against the
melodious harmonies of soothing ballads –
parallel speeches,
repeated utterances of
love.
paliona –
people say repetition brings
mastery, perfection;
if these hackneyed statements were
germane to helpless endearment,
I would’ve taken the plummet;
a timid step off the edge of the concrete building
towards the gravel beneath.
nemesism –
yet too much of heaven is a sin,
smothered by the scent of lemongrass
dappled with the caresses of
ebony tresses;
your silhouette fades to nullity;
and I fall against the prickly surface
of gravel with the memories of
the raxeira drawn along the parquet floor;
your hand lying in mine.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Who is this man? With hurt in his hands
Fallen on one knee; a vassal of Your command
“I’ve searched O’ Heart of Hearts! Yet still I found no Lord”
On a silent night
I shout in nullity
Perched fore Heav’nly Body
That makes me feel adored
In quiet genuflection
Near a Sea of Stars
I hear the waves thrashing
I listen to the Universe roar
Granted what light th’ occupied Galaxies could afford
Hark! I do declare, Serene Silence said,
“A faithful servant of Tranquility lives by his own accord”
With a new boldness and candor repose
I watched mediocrity shrink
and my love for life grow
I have heard a new Lord
The One left neglected
The One we ignored
We are One Body interconnected
Diffr’nt notes of the same chord
*The people long for heaven
but life is our reward*
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
There is a man who's last breath was exhumed from him,
his eyes are still open like a flickering picture losing focus.
It goes from colour to black and white.
Sound muffled to oblivion and then the picture goes to black
only a pin ***** of light then darkness. He lays there motionless
Yet this voice is his epilogue he last moment voices out.
All that lingered was this voice of what was and now passing.
The warmth now being expelled from his form, like air from a
pieced balloon till there was nothing but numbness and silence.
But then this voice of passing began to fracture, words disconcerted
lingering between moments. Voices of a fleeting moment realizing
it was the voice of he who lay cold and faded into nullity saying
"Why me "Wh.........,
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
Don't you feel, it's time to feel good
enough time wasted on negativity
that was a phase, a perished past
gone - disintegrated into nullity.
Experience engendered a refined persona
& it's time to fill that void with productivity
The road will always be as rough
But your soul will strive for positivity.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
Every sunset is one that bleeds within
my perception, I don't no why its
just like seeing my syllables dissipate
into a hue of clarity. I'm a pill away from
ending it, to find its different in my mind.
My collected conciseness that rises luminous,
but then dissolving as its brightness
falls into a void of white stones descending
into the nothingness inside of me.
I'm close to something beyond my perception.
I'm not linguistically challenged,
but I'm one pill away from ending
it. I've collected my memories upon
this discoloured white, and its just
a button from fading to nullity.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
If her bones are the sand,
Then he is the breeze - so,
What’s to be done when
She’s sifted to nullity?
A soul full of so much poetry;
She’s off, softly drifting to
Another faraway sea~
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
Cheers to the things that keep you up nights,
Here's to the things that make you feel truly alive,
The fascinating occurrence when,
Life and thought exist harmoniously,
moments during the timeline,
The resulting disposition is perfect union,
A wonderful shiver of oscillation,
between the Sensor and the Scenery,
Melting into the one,
Losing even the identity,
Becoming Zero,
Spiraling and imploding into the self nullity,
Then suddenly,
In radiant rupture,
The zero is and always has been,
Infinite.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Eyes there a inconvenience in the shadows
of perpetual darkness, like ailments of light
they shift around my desolate room.
I hear things, things that I should be able to
visualize with nothing within the perceptive
gazes of my sight.
I once had a life, I wouldn't call this life but
a destitute lingering of shimmering reflections
that resonate back to this place. filaments of
noise lacerate on my senses. Then I hear the
echo of past pains, my ears are vacant this
melody that I hear within my cerebral contusions.
Whispers slither within my memories, violating
valuable instances, the hairs on my arms procure
a stance of pins magnetized on vibrations.
Shading accumulates within the room and a voice
plays on the shadow of my flesh and I hear:
"Where
is
DADDY,
"Where
is
DADDY,
I shudder as I see nothing before me, but
shading that illuminates the surroundings
in visceral empathy, that I cant rightly conceive.
I encompass my reaction too slowly as thoughts
willingly motion my palms forward to oblivion.
Regressing on the onward offerings, I step back.
Have I been thinking to much, am I seeing things
that are an apparition of my desolation within
the world of my singular selves. I stumble away
from the solitude lingering in the blank reflections.
Instead I look in the mirror and see myself speaking
"Where
is
DADDY,
"Where
is
DADDY,
My younger self hammers on the echo's
of a past, unwritten words collect on my
reflection. I could stop this, if I just listened
to tearful repetitions, but I just walk into a silent
nullity of air. A reproduction of fading moments
tries in vain to stop this continuation of ourselves.
Awoken on a ***** mattress in a room, I remember
this place, but it seems desolate like the feelings
were drained from its existence.. I'm only a child,
why am I here? I cry out "Where is daddy,
Tearful in this moment, till I see a rope hanging loosely
from the ceiling, I swing back and forth, its cold on my fingers.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC
suppose I wasn't destined for joy
that the complex systematic masses and impurities within me prefer darkness to thrive better in
because what if they knew all along
how much one can hide where the rest of the world isn't looking
they wouldn't know if I never smiled a day in my life
they wouldn't know if I did
suppose the off white of my skin means I'll live longer and isn't a result of the fact that I rarely see the sun
suppose I tossed the fake sun supplements into the garbage for some odd soul to seek sanity in
consider it a gift, these worthless pills I never needed in the first place
suppose I loved this life
and hated it at the same time
suppose I believed them when they told me it wouldn't be temporary
and I made myself a home in the nullity
suppose I felt something
.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning
and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later
infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun
so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day
and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time
will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:32 AM UTC
I died as i sip, the last inch drop of memories...
Tasteless, unfragrant, fragmented vacancies...
Recollecting, regulating the blurry negligible visions...
Recalling, rewriting, summarizing the Summaries
It felt like Treachery, disregarding this treasury...
life is a Memory, and then it is nullity...
Or at least that's what the wise man said...
We drown ourselves in each shot and swim out with a sigh
Sometimes with a gloom and sometimes with a smile
But in the end, both fades away,
And oh how quickly they fade away...
As if waves washing away our names written on the shore...
it fades out to presence, to sense another sore
sores, like old chest boxes, we dive deep in each,
swimming into it's memories, bone narrow they breached
like Leeches, we **** on our melancholy as we silently screech
watching pains as days turning to wrinkles, as closer we reach
We build our future, though we live for the past...
We all get obsessed and we all get attached...
We move forward to looking back trying to find a meaning...
But after all, Life is a memory, and then it is nothing...
Or at least that's what the wise man said
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 5:37 PM UTC
The necromancer of time edged towards
your being, lingering on the edge of nullity
it was nether a juncture of significance
or a moment of distinction it was just
in wanting of what you had time...
We waste its precedence, its meaning
that continues. It likes the unfulfilled,
those that mean mere insignificance's.
Neither a blip or a ripple in the arch
of realities continuation and they end.
It once was a pedestal of time, but looked
at the regression of our understanding
trying to lure moments back into being
even though they had dispersed into
the event horizon of our lives.
Pondering its view for a moment,
it fathomed the plausibility of obtaining
this wasted passing's. One touch would
appease its curiosity, Like a euphoric
juncture it saw for a millisecond everything.
But repercussions of what was taken radiated
in echoes not yet heard but would eventually
get louder the nearer he resonated towards its
moment.
The true lineage of their last moment stolen.
He then in his greed fathomed the repercussions
as that which was woven now tore, and the ripple
became a swell. With each reverberation he reeled
in each last breath contorted within himself. And it
was that which he was feeling scratching at time.
Wondering in-between the cracks, seeing what was
and oblivion. Each fissure hung in stars within his
sight, and a tear dropped and shattered in screams
of eons of lost reflections. He did not cry, he fed on
time but life was his undoing, his continuity now flawed.
Upon him a sense of unease as he felt what time had passed
was now an engagement he was late for. Like ash in a breeze
his features were scattered upon the eons of an unsatisfied
paradox. He was but wasn't and all those that weren't now were,
Time is eternal, life is finite, never mess as it will knock at your door.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
The careless sentiment of nothing has clogged
the freeway of my neurons,
The descend to numb approaches stealthily
through pores of my flushed skin,
fraughts my lungs, asphyxiating me.
A blanket of solitude thrown by Darkness and
the hope of positive becomes a negative.
The static monitor of heart beats, beats, beats
without a sound of scintillating effervescence.
Concepts of lunacy and discomfort emerge
on the screen of my closed lids, scenes;
Of various sanctuaries and fiends.
It haunts, possesses, me, can't they let me (not) be?
Paralyzed by lethargy,
my body corrodes on the soft boneless bed of
nullity.
Not one will know,
in a few years everyone will forget; that
Once upon a times, I was.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC