"placeholders" poems
What is the void?
Nothingness manifested?
There can’t really be such a thing…
How can there be nothing?
It’s impossible.
You can’t fault me for having trouble wrapping my head around an idea as intricate and deeply infinite as nothing. From a young age, we’re taught that everything, even empty space, is created from protons, neutrons, subatomic particles…
Empty space is always made from something else.
Some describe the void not as a place, but instead as spiritual enlightenment and/or liberation. As detachment from everything. Some describe entering the void as the moment one realizes that if you try too hard to understand then you will miss the point; as the moment where the student realizes that he will never be able to anticipate his masters surprise attack, so, instead of being anxious he accepts his inability to know; as the understanding that holding on is suffering and letting go is freedom.
There is no way to truly talk about the void, about emptiness, because there is nothing tangible to be expressed in words. And yet, our curious human minds are so fixated on using dialogue to try and articulate this commodity.
Words will always fail.
Even if we could wrap our heads around this idea of emptiness, this complete and total lack of anything (comfort, love, hate, despair, joy, happiness, agony(all pieces of this complicated fabric known as human existence)) we would descend into the deepest and darkest of melancholies. The sudden moment of realization that non-being and being are one and the same and that the only thing separating the two is the awareness of being aware and the unawareness of being unaware would be too much to endure. The weight of realizing that nothing is everything, that we are 0 (placeholders for nothing (the extinction of our species before a return to nature untainted imminent)) would prove to be the strongest link of all in these shackles of existence.
What is the void?
Maybe it’s best not to ponder this any further.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
This poem is reserved
for the love of my life
Its lines are only
placeholders
templates
for what is to come
There is no meaning right now
so don't go and search for it
These are cold, emotionless words
ready to be replaced with fire
when the time is right
This stanza will be filled at a later date
This line will be about her laugh
This line will be about the look she gives me (you know the one)
This line will be about the spark in her eyes
This line...mmm...will be none of your **** business.
It's a private moment
It's between her and I
The one with the reservation
to my heart
One day this poem will mean something
One day these lines won't be empty
Someday
But not today
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Examine the word "embrace"
How syllables escape into sound
Waves
Mouth shapes
Release
E - M - BR - A - CE
How tender
A gentle approach
E... arms open wide
the invitation
an elongated welcome
"Come close"
Lips parted into a smile
M... a joining together
Communion
BR... limbs entangling
Millimeters pulse
A... the one enclosed
CE... teeth in contact, lips dangle
Hold that position
The lock
No letting go. No gaps. No holes
In bracchium -- this is your home.
Hug -- to console
a rush, a thud, an immediate response
H - U - G. Hug.
Hush.
Here. Now. Tighter.
Speech Pathology & Linguistics.
How the mouth works, how we make sense of words -- Why does your face look like that when you say those words?
Anthropology. Semiotics. Etymology.
Notice how we gather and release,
what we do to make an embrace, a hug.
Mouths feel before nerves could touch.
Have we yearned so much that utterances have become placeholders?
Settling for words, we fixate on how we say them
Read my lips gained a new meaning
Embrace, hug
Opening and closing,
holding and releasing,
touching
Wishing an action upon someone is not tantamount to sensations of nerve-endings
But bodies never really touch
Atoms push and pull
It's the physics around them that we feel
When palms caress
When fingers trace
When skin brushes upon skin
Physics
Let the physics of my words be enough until our electrons can interact again
In a dance
The expanse between your atoms and mine is dismissible as long as you hold on to the words "embrace" and "hug" and "kiss" and "love" and the anatomy of how these words come to be
Until then, I wrap my whispers around yours
Their warmth is the 3rd law of motion in action
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 2:59 AM UTC
I am trying to get my mind off
The usual morbid thoughts.
The ones about
How everything is temporary
And how I won't remember any of these people
In ten years
And how nothing matters.
How the world doesn't care whether any of us exist
And if humanity slipped out of existence
Mother Earth would probably rejoice.
About how we are nothing more
Than placeholders in the cosmos
And our existence is unnecessary
And unimportant.
Because if I stay on that path
I will end up in an
Existentialist state of
Suspended indifference.
And that is not good for sales.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
~
*It feels like the anesthetic is wearing off
This circus of machines
From coin-operated hostility
To wholesale apathy refineries
They tell us it's winter down in the subdermal
They tell us the foundation has grown weak
Dislocation is an incoming storm
Mirrors are distorted screens
Placeholders really
In a city without children
Even the statues weep
Snow upon the ground that was once blood
Now an empire without heirs
Even the trees hate us*
~
Apr 15, 2024
Apr 15, 2024 at 10:44 AM UTC
Lines drawn.
Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
got the handbook.
regulations tossed out windward.
Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.
And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.
"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.
So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
I'm cellophane.
Life spans.
Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
**** all these schematics.
And you
wrote the last word
scrawled out in constructed language.
Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.
And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...
...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.
I've seen
this one before.
I know the script
like the way to my front door.
But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
Again.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
"Be careful she doesn't get bored with you next
It's a long way to ** f
a
l
l**
."
That line popped into my head
The other day
& it's been rattling around inside
Ever since.
It's from one of my favorite books.
A book that says many true things.
I
Don't know.
It just crept inside my thoughts
& grabbed on tight.
"It's a long way to fall."
Sometimes I wonder if I am a replacement.
Maybe it's because
You aren't-
Most people are,
See.
Paper dolls
Placeholders
For the people I can't have close.
I've kissed glass lips before
Gazed through see-through collarbones
& seen only my reflection
Distorted in translucent eyes.
Sometimes they fall & break
In shards on the floor
& I see my tears
In all the little pieces.
But you
Are
Flesh.
Sometimes I ask myself
If I resent it.
I don't think I do.
(& I resent
That.-
"IT'S A LONG WAY TO FALL.")
Because I wonder,
Every so often,
If I am a paper doll to your porcelain.
If I am a poor [wo]man's lover,
Good enough . . . .
[For now.]
I don't like those thoughts.
Maybe they are where jealousy starts,
But I feel none.
(I am glad of that-
It is the ugliest feeling I know of.)
But I do wonder, all the same,
If I am only the best
You can do
Just now.
I hate wondering that.
I hate it because I shouldn't care to wonder,
("it'salongwaytofall!")
& I hate it because I should think it's more ridiculous
Than I do.
I looked by accident
In[T]o puppydog eyes the other d[A]y
Begging for attention
At the dinner table
& I heard it li[K]e b[E]lls
"[IT]'s a long way to f[ALL]."
& mostly I do dismiss it,
The possibility that sometimes seems
Very real,
That I am a passing fad-
"It's a long way to fall."
The nagging inkling that ma[Y]be
I'm n[O]t special-
Just
New.
& that I will pass
Like aut[U]mn,
& my leaves fall
& the pretty colors gone
[W]ill leave me bare & ugly
& l[I]feless al[L] over again.
The passing thought that perhaps
The universe is speaking to me & not you,
That maybe the message is
"It's a
[L]ong
*Way
To*
[ F A L L." ]
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
They seep into my empty spaces
Blonde hair
Blue eyes
Wrong soul
Right time.
Filling in the gaps.
They leech onto my soul but
what is left for them to feed on?
Carcass and dead bones.
Crows, crows,
That is all I know.
Floating in limbo, they float in
And out.
Into my mouth,
Hands in my hair
Do I let them, do I dare?
They fill the wine glass of my body and mind
with nothing but water.
Only to drink it all and leave me dehydrated
-- fend for yourself, you con, you sham.
You put on, and you put on well.
So be ******* ****** if you please,
Be ****** to hell.
Drink out of the well of misery that you filled.
He emptied your soul and so you went looking
for a replacement.
But these placeholders do nothing but accumulate dust,
Leaving neat little circles when they decide to hit the bin.
And you’re left worse than you began,
-- nothing but a body of sin.
-lf-
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
Shall I compare you to wonderful things?
I’m not so sure.
Likely you’d find it
Slightly off-putting
Or maybe emotional,
Too seriously gossamer
Like a blueberry muffin
Dressing up
In a bride and groom cake topper.
So I guess
To hell with you anyway
One day you’ll have a box full of
Printed concert tickets
And all of silicon valley
filled with e-mails
Random statements exchanged for nothing
Placeholders of what we might have actually
Said
To each other
Letters that smell like incense and lotion
And sketches that smell like beer
Are outdated
But kisses in a library are better
Than *** in a dance rave.
And you’d rather be someone’s lover
Than to be loved by someone.
Or be preferentially bombarded by
Tones alerting you of some alternate reality
Because I’m just talking to you without intention
but that’s not true
and I’m not wires and gears
and maybe you should find
someone you can write checks for
and I’ll die
without finding a soul
to love me in a poem
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 12:50 AM UTC
Lies that remain placeholders for happiness
Will eventually consume us.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Oh, those store mannequins
with their pretty, empty heads
and unending, plastic smiles,
are forever standing, never dead
on their small, well-heeled feet.
As prime examples of fortitude,
they’re ready to make a sale…
at your expense; smug attitudes
can be imagined, as they strike
poses with ease and flexibility.
Do they mirror us, as placeholders
in Life? Having potential energy,
.
they remain lifeless in display Hell;
what things about us, do they tell?
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Store dummies and Prov 16:28; Matt 7:1-5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
Amazon (dot) com
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
we lay in bed
and speak to the ceiling
through each other
to one another
and finally tell our feelings
to the placeholders in the walls
to the guilt inside our chests
you were meant for loving
and i am craving it
my arms around you
my mind intertwined in this sweet divide
of where you and i started
of where you and i hide
it's easy to lose
when you face the collide
but darling,
all i've ever wanted
was to be by your side
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
i’ve never been religious but i’ve always known how to pray,
words worn down by my tongue like a security blanket.
it’s been years since i’ve thought about what they actually mean;
it’s like my pledge of allegiance, i don’t pray,
i recite.
repetition repetition repetition
my brain’s in fission
i pledge allegiance to the flag--
we only loved behind closed doors
of the united states of america--
i’ve heard if you say something enough times it stops sounding like anything at all
and to the republic for which is stand--
i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you
one nation under god--
i usually leave that part out.
close my mouth, stand silent.
silence is for sinners and we are losing battles of people.
in my history textbook there is a picture
of a man shoving a flower in the barrel of a soldier’s rifle.
just the same,
you’re the kind of person who’d go planting flowers
on the side of the road just to make it prettier,
you’re always wasting your time caring about people
who couldn’t give a **** about you
and it’s probably tragic or something
but words like tragic and poetic are for different people than us.
i am so ******* bad at gentle and you’re deserving of delicate.
i think some people are less impressionable in the way the take up space
than they are in the holes they leave when they’re gone.
i used to imagine that there were phantom versions of myself,
standing everywhere that i have ever stood
like ghosts or maybe more like placeholders.
waiting.
it’s like how when i was a little kid,
i would try to picture what the spot i was standing in
looked like a hundred, a thousand years ago.
who has treked through through the same places
that i go everyday.
i still like to think like that sometimes.
i like to think we leave behind echoes of ourselves
in the places we’ve been.
i like to think that a hundred, a thousand years from now,
there is going to be a little kid trying to do the same,
picturing me standing here.
i still like to think there is a version of me
hanging around in my childhood home, six years old with
missing front teeth.
i still like to think there is a version of me
wandering around all my favorite cities i’ve visited.
by this logic, there is still a version of you
in the room i last saw you in,
still framed by the light pouring in from the window.
by this logic, there is still version of me
in the room i last saw you in… waiting.
for something.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
I've realized that when I can't be with you, you'll be with someone else. I've come to accept the fact that other girls' sheets have felt the skin on your back as you give yourself away to them. I wonder if you realize that every time you're with someone else you're throwing away a little piece of me. You claim the girls you're with are only temporary, as if they were placeholders trying to fill the void in your heart where I used to be. As if they were just keeping my seat warm. When in fact they're just setting my spot on fire and as it engulfs in flames you just stand and watch me fade away. It's like I'm always just a step behind you, trailing along like a child looking for their mother in a grocery store. When I get lost I click my feet three times but it never brings me home. I can close my eyes and see images of you walking out the door but I can never figure out where you're going. I've started drinking ***** to wash down the memories but it boils in my chest until I cough them back out. I wander the streets hoping I might run into you because I forget we're on different paths now. It's like a dirt trail through a forest I have never seen before. It's a never ending journey that I find myself making in hopes of crossing paths with you again, hoping that if I get lost you'll come find me. I turn songs on the radio and all I hear is you shouting leave me alone and I can't love you anymore. It's like every empty picture frame haunts me with the thought of never seeing you again. I want to be able to run home to you but there's an ocean between us and I forgot how to swim. I drown myself in the salt water that leaves trails down my face as I remember what it's like to listen to your heartbeat. I wonder how fast it goes as you lay next to someone new because I know I can feel the blood rushing through my veins at the thought of you with someone else. I'm starting to shake again and as my hands are trembling I just want you to hold them and tell me everything's gonna be alright.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
this space
filled with placeholders
like mannequins
like first drafts
like sketches
.
that weightless non-committal
holding together of not
functional
being
.
there was no space for something substantial
no space for something
tangible
.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 6:27 PM UTC
cracks of silence –
open letter to pain,
closed doors to love
kisses of violence –
tasting it all again
cherubs from above –
devils on my shoulders;
smiles before expected losses
pretend game of true love –
these horns are placeholders
suicidal thoughts in my head
play dead inside – _possums._
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC
What is in a name?
Description?
Category?
Definition?
What is in a name?
You chose to read this poem
Based on its name
Or at least that was
Part of it
Or am I wrong?
What is in a name?
It's a greeting
It's a calling card
It's a connection
But what is it really?
Names can change
Through marriage
Through nickname
Through law
Through so many things
What is in a name?
Why do we regard them so highly
Or so lowly?
Names aren't who we are
Names are just our titles
Names are just our covers
What is in a name?
I personally think
They are just placeholders
They hold our reputation
Until we can either live up to them
Fall short of them
Live beyond them
The placeholders are there
For people who think they know us
I know that I hate placeholders
They're ever so annoying
They set silly bars
That I'd like to take down
What is in a name?
Nothing until you fill it
With who you were
Who you are
And who you want to be
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Not waiting around
for you to decide
whether
this is wrong or right
I'll take dates
to spite...
you.
Despite
wanting
just
you.
They're placeholders.
It's fine.
It's exciting
when you don't
care and just
put yourself out there.
Shouldn't you care?
Or does a small part
think
it won't turn out
well.
Oh well.
Oh well
I keep telling myself.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
love is a lie, a fool’s errand, a lost cause of being burned and churned; chewed up and spat out; of hate and bitterness. teenage veterans traumatized by the senseless romantic violence of the endless ****** wars.
of ****** prostituting themselves out to Chads and Tyrones, eating like pigs at an unlimited buffet, using, abusing, and abandoning, when they’ve had their fill.
of simps acting like dancing monkeys entertaining and quenching thirsty Stacies, who string them along, placeholders until a Tyrone pays attention to them.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 11:34 PM UTC
Whether it be the ceiling tiles in the classroom or the hospital tiles in hospice, everyone has a memory of tiles tied in.
These little square pieces that can trigger a violent vision.
However, it might not be physical tiles either.
They may be tiles your run across as you try to escape from the monster your mind creates.
The pieces falling out from under you, giving way to an immense fear.
These tiles are background characters, always looming.
The tiles we see are mere placeholders in our minds for our most substantial moments.
Do you have memories of tiles?
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC