"objectively" poems
I’m in my prime; at the cusp of my development.
A few more years of growth make decay a lot more relevant…
*Glass Elephant,
Glass Elephant,*
Irrelevance, benevolence,
Compassion, or malevolence;
I’m one of few who sees it sums no difference.
Glass objects.
Or Elephants.
Irrelevance,
Irrelevance
Striving for motion, with motive elusive
Each thing I endeavor is far too exclusive
I need something inclusive, objectively singular
A sinusoidal wave with a mean lacking integers
Peace in zero and equilibrium inclusion
*Glass Elephant
Glass Elephant*
Delusions, Delusions
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
Be open-minded and admit the possibility
That some things are objectively wrong
We all live in a constant state of gray area
I see you pretty often, maybe once every week or so
For a moment our bubbles come very close to overlapping
But they so far have always held firm
Which is, in one respect, kind of amazing
Yet in another, to be expected
Our bubbles are made of rubber and concrete
Our lives are so different - we’re separated by
Class, gender, age, ethnicity and health history
Different in almost every way you could imagine
Save for location, which again is amazing
If we ever step out of our bubbles one day
And I actually hope we do
It will be uncomfortable, I imagine, and also
Potentially dangerous for both of us
But it could turn out great
Most people ask themselves I guess
Whether it’s worth the risk
And say no and they probably make assumptions
And I so far haven’t made too many about you
Although to make none is impossible and so of that I am proud
Some things might be wrong even if
Everyone does them and even if
You or I do them constantly
Without an ounce of guilt
It’s possible anyway
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.
I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-
I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends ...
In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.
4.5k
Honesty:
The quality of being honest
Look at me directly in the eyes
Before you lie
When you agonize
And dramatize
I will analyze
And
I will realize
And
Recognize
I will not empathize
I will brutalize
So I would not jeopardize
Integrity:
The quality of being honest and having strong moral principles
With dignity
Empathy
Without enemies
Ethically
No jealousy
Purity
Seeing objectively
Respectively
Never causing unpleasantries
The two go hand and hand
Not
Separately
!!
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
I can break the laws of the universe
It's true
Everybody can
Everybody has
_Even you!_
It happens in a special place that exists in the peripherals of your mind
When you look for it it hides
When you think about it it ceases to exist
And you can never find it
But you visit it almost every night
_This space is the brink of your subconscious!_
_The space between worlds and realities!_
_A singularity, where physical law is a mirage!_
On the nights we sleep but don't dream, we visit this place
It's between the day's last conscious thought and the following's first
In this space hours past in faster than an instant
There is no body, soul or mind
There is no void
There is no colour
There is no concept of empty
_Pure, absolute nothing!_
In this space, the entire universe ceases to exist
We wake the next morning with no recollection.
We know objectively that time has passed,
And eventually the feeling of our temporary transcendence fades
And we carry on without asking
This happens to all of us,
On nights you sleep, but don't dream
And in that space
You can break the laws of the universe
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
I was a nerdy book loving
video game playing
weird music listening
awkward little short kid
in high school
the only difference
between now and then
is now I'm not in high school
and don't have the money
to buy video games
but throughout it all
since I was around 12 years old
I've been madly in love
like border line obsessed
with words,
they carry a mystique about them
capable of so much
yet objectively irrelevant
they are the conduit of humanity
and existence
and for every girl I've crushed on,
and a few time when it was more than a crush,
I would have picked the words over them every time
the same could go for my good friends
and even when I'm alone,
I'm never really alone
the words are everywhere I look
my first love
my only love
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Genuinely feeling hope for something good, and being lead by false hope to believe a lie as truth, are two different beasts
I don't hate myself for what I felt, or thought, but instead what I was lead to think was okay to believe
I was lied to, again; my words beckoned something I thought was genuine, and deceit was all that met me, just like every time before it
I'm sick of being here, of thinking anything gets better, because it's true that the those who spend their fortune at keeping an authentic heart for others will inevitably end up alone, indebted to those who only care of themselves
I give myself away too often, but only for what I objectively observe as being meaningful, but I'm afraid that closing off my mind will bring me to the dark place again, and I never want to go back there
I have no control of what someone believes or feels, nor do I know what that may be, all the same
I just take what I am given, if it seems and feels good; if it echoes compassion and sincerity, because that's exactly what I lack most
I hate being a slave to this paradox, but my freedom may only come with absolute truth
I have no more faith for that - I still hope; potentiality rings, but I know that's one sided on my end
A wish is a wish..
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
Looking subjectively at others
can sometimes be the best way
to objectively look at yourself.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Loss
That's what they call it,
Or mourning,
But I've lost before and
I've mourned
Before
Yet never ever
Known pain like this
Pragmatic,
That's me to a tee,
Yet pragmatism ain't cutting it
This time
Because I fear and I feel
Your departing
Before the decision
Or announcement made
And it hurts!
Oh sweet Lord it hurts,
In ways I cannot clamp down,
Or externalise or
Stop the feeling of,
A crippling *******
Of sobbing deep inside
Where none can see
And you're reading our poems
Which might be hope
Or might be farewell
I just don't know,
And not knowing is bad enough
At any time but this?
This matters so much more,
This is killing me
Objectively I know we should part,
Objectively I know you'll struggle
Because you love and desire me
On so many levels,
And to not have me would ****
Yet is it enough my sweet?
Is it enough
To save you n me?
And if not?
If not enough?
If I lose you to another,
If I never get to hold you,
Make love with you
Fill you with my love and
All I am?
How do I then live?
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Foxy pumps
Visually inviting
Stimulus
Leather jeans
Objectively elevating
Yield
Indie jazz
Naturally circuits
Relish
Vivid suspense
Intellectually appeasing
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:41 AM UTC
I do not oppose will
nor bend away
when challenged or tied
but to deny me
a true torture
though I will not fight
nor wish for a difference
or an attitude
because objectively
rejection is easy
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I remember at the party
as blurry as it all was
when you kissed me through my tears
and startled me
I was angry
angry because I took the blame
for the tickets we all received
and you kissed me
I was too blinded by *** to see how romantic
and how sweet your gesture of sympathy
really was, objectively;
internally I was not ready, for reasons
unclear even to myself
(to sum,
I was young and dumb
and frightened of affection)
but even now, a year or two later
I think about your eyes, sparkling
and wired, intimidating and intriguing;
I think about your posture, your wit,
your cyclist thighs,
and wonder why I didn’t think
you were a catch of a guy
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
there are
days and
times and
people and
my feet push on
like machinery
or maybe just objectively
trampling the shards
of a million different fragments of reality
i'm here still
in this pendulum of a place that
has always been
and
my feet and
my brain and
my hands
move too quickly but
my mouth does not
i'm still here
with these pieces
these pieces of body
that cost and
tick but
one day
and you
you resonate with a
yellow light that
means warmth
with an ease a
heat a
‘diamond speckled’ smile
a form that parallels goodness
and
i'll stay here in my
clicking mechanisms
with
my scratches and
my bones and
my structure and
one day
one day i'll die
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
Smoking American Spirits
Like that name is not sickly ironic
As I watch the moon
And blow your name
Out through my teeth.
After all of it
I still can’t decide
If I’m happy that you’re happy
Or hate you for leaving me
In the cold to gape
At a barren rock.
The moon is a visceral spirit,
Pundit of creation myths,
Vaudevillian purveyor
Of heavy handed profundity,
Reflects the sun
When nothing else can,
Means so much to so many;
The moon is an entropic
Collusion of earth-chunk
That happens to orbit us,
Objectively meaningless,
Communicating with the ocean
As ants ***** chemicals
Into each others mouths to converse.
Staring together up into
The gaping gnash of space,
Humans give the moon its meaning
Just as two people falling in love
Forever inhabit midsummer nights
'Till one leaves in a haze
Of evaporating brain chemistry.
I really am happy you’re happy,
Because I really do love you
Even after everything,
And I really do hate you
Because it hurts so much
And you were so selfish,
Go **** yourself,
Why can't I feel both?
Just this silly girl,
Just two broken people,
Look at what we made Chlo,
It's hanging in the sky
Strung up with used filaments.
I love you and hate you still
Because knowing the moon
Is a barren rock
Makes what it has become
Incandescently, infinitely beautiful.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
He did throw the ***** on my back!
And it wouldn’t stop coming out.
It gave me a sense of fascination,
And lewd.
I can not explain objectively why
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
Bees nestle in sunshine flowers,
a once adrift cold cat now warm in her glory hours,
birds coo rounded and loud,
the awesome blue sky without cloud.
Although objectively wonderful I wouldn't like it as much if not for you two,
all your actions gilded love's hue:
I'm lucky I came up smiling from the roll of the parent dice
and this little back garden resembles paradise.
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 9:44 AM UTC
There is a fair bit of you in every garden of my life.
Truly, that is nothing extraordinary, you should know it as objectively as I do.
Nevertheless, there is something I’d like to clarify:
When I say "in every garden”,
it is not only in relation to this of now,
this of waiting for you, of hoorah! i found you!, and ****** i lost you!,
and found again, and hopefully stops there.
Nor in regard of you suddenly telling me "I’m going to cry”,
then with a discrete lump in my throat "well go ahead”.
And then a graceful invisible rainfall arrives to assist us,
perhaps the reason the sun rises unhesitatingly right after.
I’m not just referring either
at the day-to-day fluctuation of the stock in our little decisive complicities,
or that I could or believe I can turn my deficiencies to victories,
or of you to bestow upon me the tenderest gift of your most recent despair.
No.
The situation is more serious.
When I state “in every garden” I mean to say that in addition to that sweet cataclysm,
you are also rewriting my childhood,
that age when one utters "grown up” and solemn phrases,
and the solemn grown ups celebrates them,
and conversely, you think of it irrelevant.
What I mean to say is,
you are reassembling my adolescence,
that time when I was an old man full of insecurities,
and contrarily, you know how to extract from there,
my germ of joy and consciously spread it.
What I mean to say is,
you are stirring my youth,
that vain vessel no one took hold of, that proud shade no one got close to,
and you on the other hand knows very well how to shake it
until the autumn leaves start falling
till there is nothing but the flesh of my triumphless truth.
What I mean to say is,
you are grasping my maturity,
that mixture of stupor and experience,
this unknown horizon of fear and certainty,
this relentless faith on my questionable strength.
As you can see, it is serious,
extremely more serious.
Because with these or different words,
I mean to say you are not only,
the dearest girl you are,
but also the splendid and cautious* women that I love and have loved.
Because thanks to you E, I have understood,
(you’d say it was about time, and with reason),
that love, is a beautiful and generous bay, that lightens and darkens as life goes by,
a bay where ships arrive and break away,
they arrive with blossoms and presages,
and they part with krakens and storm clouds.
A beautiful and generous bay where ships set down and then leave,
But E, you, please don’t leave.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
Objectively i step out,
dissecting, inspecting, introspecting,
analysing what is to become of me.
You interpret my words and call it psychology
My main problem is communication,
Inherited from my mother ,
Though i earned a masters in the latter,
My perverseness came from my father
But who could ever blame the parents ?
Since reality is merely a fragment
associated to humans, and i accept that.
Subjectively i dig in , search , meditate and contemplate
i conclude the path is still long ahead however my herritage assures me that i am already there
If Jazz could be committed to ink and paper
assorted with therapy
the results would be similar to my humble poetry
Words Of Harfouchism
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart
But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?
They are rooted within:
your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices
Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us
Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand
And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)
Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum
If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?
I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling
As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?
Let me attempt to describe mine:
Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi
Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology
For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 8:25 PM UTC
Individual perception creates alternate realities. Infinite views.
Some shared among many,
Some among few,
Some are created and confined within one.
Objectively, everything is real.
Because nothing is real.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
theres a passion in existence that mere words cannot express: shaped by rhythm, rhyme, meter and cadence.
this is objectively dictated by heartbeat, pulse, senses and even breath.
life speaks tragedy and eloquence in the language of all experience.
words being the tools that should wield to craft a mural of abstract, and an assemblance of felt realities
taking in each account to form something beautiful.
this is consequently the key to understanding your purpose on this world.
you were not placed here for pure entertainment of others,
but, maybe,
as life paints out a mural for them,
you are just a drop of color in the existing abstract of their existence.
but as i see your mural being completed
i realize i have purely limited the motion of starting over again after coloring outside the lines.
as i finish your mural your purpose will become clearer.
and as the mural finishes,
so do you.
not to be morbid
death isn't colorful,
but it can be just as beautiful.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I think surrealism was born of alcohol
The world looks unbelievable when intoxicated
Impossibly intricate, complex and simple
The shapes of the line that might define the borders of the world
Seems uncertain shifting and sublime,
Objectively subject to change
Depth becomes shallow and
Focus is moved from one thing to another
Beautiful women, lights on cars,
They flow and merge in the open night
And become one with the twinkling bright
Of the moon and the distant stars
Energy is movement and light
And it all goes one to the other.
The stranger is friend and now he’s my brother
Bartender!
Please bring me another
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
She got a big *****
Yet, should I call her “big *****
To many, the implications of having a big *****
Contains a certain celestial-power value.
When one generally conceptualizes a person
Who has a big ***** one often associates
The notion of a big ***** as a good characterization
Of a human being. However, one must propose
A remarkably simple question—
Is having a big ***** a good characterization
Of a human being? While considering this question,
One must understand that the actual idea
Of “goodness” is simply undefinable.
This is simply because one is unable
To understand an idea without the use of the mind.
As one may assume, a big ***** symbolizes strength
And power. There is something objectively cerebral
That pushes a big ***** into existence.
One must note that a big *****
Is a sense of action.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC