"purposeless" poems
O traveler, why lookest thou straight
on the road
grave and speculative,
Depriving your eyes such a beatific sight,
See the angelic form standeth behind
the window curtain,
Come, wait, sit beside me, it’s worth waiting,
We both will sing in praise of her
And linger until she uncurtains the curtain.
You say it’s purposeless
Why argue?
Isn’t it the reason our maker gives us eyes?
Isn’t it the purpose of our mind’s evolution
to sing and hail the beauty; at least of her.
You won’t believe my word? Impertinence!
You will be blinded by her shadow
spare her presence; “stare not for long”,
What? You say it exaggeration…
Bon Dieu!
If beauty is not exaggerated
where lies its charm.
Look! her shadow moving, she is
growing impatient as if getting
late to meet her lover.
Yes, she wins heart in a look
and crushes it in a blink and wins again
by smile.
Monarch sleeps in her bed
Life in right, Death in left hand; she possesses,
Judiciary in closet
And warriors in purse.
Countries bow, world kneel, universe supplicate
before her.
Stop! Where thou going?
Pardon these adynatons,
I’m drunk in her beauty.
Let us sing then, I’ll lead, you follow
Flowers wilting in chilled air,
Waiting clouds to part
To have a look fair,
Of moon…
Do see the restlessness in that room?
I can sense her ***** heaving, repressed
sighs and her fingers twisting, twirling
in exasperation,
It must be a lover
who invented the song, isn’t it?
A gloomy firefly in this starless sky
Searching his lover
Who has lost the light,
Wait not moon, rise, help him
In his plight…
Look! look! The curtain is drawn
There she, my sovereign,
don’t mistake her eyes for stars.
Have a profound look, but not too long;
this witnesses only fortunate.
What? you lost your vision-
But I warned you earlier.
Now, who’ll testify I saw her?
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
354
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged—a Summer Afternoon—
Repairing Everywhere—
Without Design—that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers—understood—
Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay—
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud—
Where Parties—Phantom as Herself—
To Nowhere—seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference—
As ’twere a Tropic Show—
And notwithstanding Bee—that worked—
And Flower—that zealous blew—
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky—
Till Sundown crept—a steady Tide—
And Men that made the Hay—
And Afternoon—and Butterfly—
Extinguished—in the Sea—
5.1k
We are afraid of tying knots.
Now, my brothers weren't fond of Boy Scouts, but those aren't the kinds of knots I'm talking about.
Our parents got us velcro shoes growing up (something about not wanting us to be overwhelmed with tennis shoes)
And that, perhaps, was the moment that started everything.
We could no longer trip on loose laces as we ran our races,
Our parents couldn't see our disappointed faces as we fumbled getting ready for school.
It was the perfect contribution to the flawed illusion that the human institution should be prevented from failing.
Oh, yes.
In my lifetime, cordless telephones were placed in every house because we did not want to untangle our own messes anymore.
Failure doesn't hurt as much when it is invisible.
We wanted wireless, no-strings-attached luxuries with no side effects.
But there were effects that couldn't be seen
(how could they until we were older than teens)
Because the end effect was this:
a generation that shirks responsibility
we have anxiety
because our parents didn't let us face our fears when we were young
we are jobless, loveless, purposeless
because we still haven't realized that everything has its opposite
love - lust
success - failure
happiness - sadness
peace - anger and commotion
you see?
there are full-grown adults living in the basements of their parents
watching **** from an illuminated screen
a no-strings-attached commitment to a video that will never require a vow or a promise;
so many see the term "settling down" as "kicking up dust" of a dull life "confined to a four-inch screen."
we've seen our own parents cut the ties
now living separate lives
better that way, but millennials can't fight
for love or for kids or for dreams
because their caretakers' examples couldn't teach
the right way to do a marriage
the right way to commit
we are shirking responsibility--
because we don't want to fail.
still as afraid of tying knots
as we were in kindergarten.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
The caterpillar was raised by worms.
The worms loved the caterpillar,
But the worms didn't know much
About the caterpillar's nature.
They tried to understand,
And they tried to help as best they could,
But when the caterpillar got really hungry,
All they could understand was that
They had never been so hungry,
And they were happy,
And if the caterpillar wasn't careful,
He would become corpulent and fat.
So in their kind, ignorant, wormy way,
The wonderful worm family
Discouraged the caterpillar from eating too much,
And being too hungry.
The caterpillar was confused,
But he loved his worm family
So he tried his best to eat less and
Not get too hungry.
But the less the caterpillar ate,
The more hungry he got,
Until he was so starving,
He didn't even feel like himself.
He felt sad and sluggish and purposeless.
Then, in the middle of the night,
The caterpillar snuck up to he favourite leafy tree,
To just get a small midnight snack.
Before he knew it though, he had eaten
An entire branch of leaves.
And the caterpillar was still hungry.
He couldn't get enough.
He ate all through the night, and into the next day.
When his worm family awoke,
They saw the caterpillar up in the tree
Eating away.
They tried their best to get the caterpillar to stop,
But it was too late.
Soon with tears in their eyes,
The worms saw they're dear brother
Become sluggish and
Tired.
Until finally
The caterpillar wrapped himself up in a whitened
Casket, and hang motionless in a leafy
Grave.
The worm family mourned the loss of their beloved caterpillar brother,
And once again warned the other children about the dangers
Of being too hungry.
A few days later,
One of the wormy sisters went to visit her brother's grave.
But when she arrived she saw the most miraculous thing!
A butterfly was emerging from her brother's tomb.
The caterpillar-butterfly
Was not angry at the worms for trying to stop him from becoming a butterfly,
They didn't know he would be able to
Be a butterfly after all,
And they were just trying to keep the caterpillar from harm.
After the family had a beautiful reunion,
The butterfly flew away to somewhere
He could be hungry, and beautiful. And
Somewhere he could fly.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
cosmic dust.. blowing in the wind
that's what we are.
remains and debris of impacted rock
that clutters and piles meaningless and purposeless.
just until the moment of gravity or some god-like force
accumulates the lifeless rock and dust into larger objects of mass.
what is formed is just a glimmer, a speck in the whole universe.
a tiny cog in a gigantic network of gadgets and machines.
that is us...
and then Jobs told us to go make a dent in it all…
go and make your mark… and follow your heart
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
the excellence is evident in the credulous eminence
blessedness in the discipline of relevant emphasis
intelligence, if directionless, can lead to arrogance
purposeless over-confidence of pendulous relevance
defiantly, yet reliably, calliope waiting quietly
a variety of society that finds height in irony
i solemnly and politely will happily sit silently
finally facing the gravity patiently and privately
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
Demon from Depressed Depths
Horror lurking in the murk, squirting myself through liquid nightmares, paranormal animal portrait
The walls of my bedroom are black, the ceiling navy, ****** sun above me winks in mockery
My friends are few in this frozen almost-society; I wander the briny fog in boredom, purposeless
Eyes swollen from swimming, swallowing so much salt: dehydrated underwater, skin pasty and ill
I hide from starving sharks and their terrible tiny teeth, but duel the diving whale: he I can drown
I can ***** forth literature; the pens of Whitman and Carroll were filled from my blackened innards
From fingertip to toetip I am nearly biggest, in a world without fingers or toes, primitive appendages
I am all knowing: I commune with the dead: I can operate a Ouija board alone with all these arms
I was killed off by Tennyson after just 14 lines, but Lovecraft made me what I am: heathen deity
Wonderful creature, yet I find myself here: battered next to chips in a polystyrene tray: Beach food
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
موت خود مرنا چاہتی ہے۔
مگر اُسکی بےبسی دیکو، اُسکا صبر دیکھو۔
تم بےبس نہیں ہو لیکن، تم بھی زرا صبر کرلو۔
میں جانتا ہوں زندگی ابھی بے مقصد سی ہے، بے معنی ہے۔ اور مرنے کی خواہش ہے بہت۔
لیکن خواہشات کا مرنا ہی خُدا کی اصل عبادت ہے۔
تُم بھی اِس اِک خواہش کو ختم کرلو۔ صبر کرلو۔
Translation:
Him: I want to die
Me: Death itself wishes to die
But look at it's helplessness, look at it's patience
You are not helpless though, but you too be patient
I know that life is now purposeless, meaningless.
And the desire to die is overwhelming.
But the death of desires is the true obedience of God.
So you too extinguish this desire (of death), be patient.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 12:00 PM UTC
A beautiful understatement
to see your hair graze your face,
startled but still treading,
in the soul red of your lipstick.
What life has been,
No more than a series of random anomalies.
How those trivial pocket-sized pieces,
tied in to envisage
to fix this inanimous reality.
How wayward me
lost in this purposeless dream,
at random to meet you,
augmented closer to declare,
the love people just theorize.
How life started for me after you.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
dragged out of bed by the beating of my blood through my eardrums,
then pushed back into the deep corner of my mind by the drumming in my head,
this idea's progressing to a level higher than the mountaintop it was conceived on.
as it draws itself out in the stars; by my fingertips pointed heavenward,
the picture completes itself with the slightest adjustments of my mind,
and produces somewhat of an opus to be driven and dragged out upon.
killed in its final instances, it's death brings renewed life;
rebirth only gets to those who really ever let it mean something important,
and as we give purpose to our purposeless lives, i see what you're awakening to as a con;
a deception not of the hands that were supposed to belong to somebody else, but of my own.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
Freshman Year
You're 15, and you don't know who you are yet
But you're ****** good at faking it.
No one loves you...
at least not the way you want them to.
And you OBVIOUSLY have a best friend
that you can swear gets more attention than you
Which makes you insecure.
You're lonely and a little jealous
And then you meet him.
He holds your hand on the bus.
He stares deeply in your eyes.
He tells you that you're beautiful.
You cling to him like velcro.
He says he loves you...
he promises you things,
says he'll give you only the best.
But you're only a freshman.
You don't know how things work yet
but you do know that you're in love
and that no one can take that away.
....And you continue to think this....
until the words fall out of his mouth in one breath
And with those words he sends you away
and your world becomes a purposeless abyss.
You are officially over.
You can feel your heart come crashing down into the darkest pits of your stomach.
You feel it shatter.
And the tears come down like a water fall
It hurts for weeks...
but darling you're only 15.
15 is the year of regret.
It's teenage heart break in the flesh
It is new things
New people
and new feelings.
My love, you are a freshman
and your just learning that
... **** like this happens.
Your heart...
It has a band aid on it
but it's still beating.
Your life is over
but you're still breathing.
On to the next one,
still, no one
can tell you anything.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
a shot in the arm,
****** then blood.
one flash of burgundy
touches the mud.
grown like a child
from nothing to dust.
black in the arbor;
it's better to rust.
sicker than tired;
darkness can come.
aim for the wicked,
one hand and a thumb
clutches haphazard;
pins on my tongue.
dumping my innards;
sticky and stung,
not for the rectory;
a person undone.
better than death:
purposeless fun.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
on a day hanging in haze
the crow sits glum on a perch
do the flying pairs overhead
remind it of the lost mate
and in the midday lull
it feels a vacuous dullness
when even the search for food
seems purposeless?
i feel a stab of pain inside
whoever goes first is lucky
not so the one left behind
maybe the wings are now too heavy
for the bird to fly into the sky
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
In a maze of endless death
Every turn is love and war
Any wall can constrict any man’s sinful neck
Life leaving his heart’s cold core
A twisted, greedy man appears,
Seeing a tangled man with a lustful expression
His eyes see the treasure, gold and bright
And is caught within a poisonous suppression
A fierce woman soon approaches
Bitter and angry, her maw and claws sharp
Burning through the coils and gas
Falls to endless sleep with the help of a harp
A wistful child comes forth
Living in envy and through a disguise
Treads, like a thief, past the harp
To fall into the ground through his shadow’s demise
Five have failed and five faced death
So an animal consumes his way through the vines
Through the gas, harp, and trap
Only to die by it’s purposeless cries
Now a small ant rises
And slowly makes his way through the maze
He reaches a gate and opens the door
And sees a figure that brings endless raze
Who is left in this cold cruel world?
Who can become the seventh to the prize?
A god, a hot-headed braggart, reaches the gift
And loses faith through his guilt and his lies
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
I am,
through the arduous
but never purposeless
search to sing the song of
life and live out loudly,
like you.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
(Written 12/09/09)
Sometimes the sun sets early
On times that passed too soon;
When reality's not worthy
And our dreams carelessly strewn;
Sometimes hope appears as worthless
As the secret tears we cry;
Some people die on purpose
With no thought to say goodbye.
Perceived selfishness, derided
Over all they left unsaid;
All their years of trying to hide it
- All for nothing, once they're dead;
Though they never meant to hurt us
Agony is always there;
Some people die on purpose,
Driven by profound despair.
Misery is bleak and mindless,
It devours from inside out;
And we only seek the kindness
That so many go without.
Feeling purposeless and worthless,
Trapped by drudgery and fear;
Some people die on purpose,
Some wish, but are still here.
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 2:43 AM UTC
we can sit up all night in some hotel room,
curled beneath each other, listening to the sound
of heartbeats and old cassette tapes.
you are the kind of girl i want to make mixtapes for.
when i see your smile, i collapse.
you give me the faintest idea of what a heart attack might feel like
and, god ****** i enjoy it.
i remember you telling me that you haven’t felt purposeful
or useful or strong enough to be either
and i looked in your eyes and saw
the only person who’d ever been strong enough
to admit that their only purpose was to be purposeless.
and if life is only lived to find promise,
then what the **** is death for?
i’ve seen god on lonely street corners
where homeless men stare at buses
wishing they had enough change in their cups
to change things.
i’ve seen happiness in the eyes of single motherscarrying three jobs and a failed marriage
in the shopping bags they drag up the stairs.
i’ve seen one bedroom apartments with more space to call home
than you could ever find in that mansion on the hillside.
and i’ve seen you look so helpless
that the only help i could offer
was to let you climb out of it yourself.
i have trouble letting you be.
i have trouble finding myself.
i have trouble being anywhere but in your arms.
there are disciples in your chest
preaching off-balanced wisdom and there are
people written across your skin
all of them whispering,
"you made me feel welcomed.
you made me feel something.”
and if you only understood how lonely the bus rides get
or how hard it is to walk home in the dark
carrying nothing but your heartbreak,
then you would know what it meant
when i told you that you are the only thing
to ever make any of it worth it.
i will write your name in my poetry until it no longer has a meaning.
i will kiss you until my lips no longer make your knees weak.
i was homeless until i met you.
you handed me enough change to change things.
i hope you don’t find better things to do with your day
than to pass by my corner
and smile.
your are purposeful and you are useful
and you never had to be either.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
unwarranted threatening,
irrational processes of elimination,
and purposeless annihilation
of every last ******* morsel;
every last ******* bit and piece
you ever had to say
stings as it hits me
through the skeleton.
you're a skeleton too, i hope you know.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
tonight,
my shadow settles
in a different corner of the world
and his obscures me
content to hang on my frame
shielding any light from my eyes
faith's grievance -
the gravest sin I'd commit
salt to skin
faith's only albatross -
the bits of faith I'd toss
like Ms. Greenwood's dress
into the darkest parts of New York
like I think of my name
winking into the fixed abyss
indifferent to its prior disguise
when it does not leave the lungs enough
and on the height of my fuss,
inspiration flees
like a sour gust through the city at night
- a hint of death
a tinge of it on my hands
the void I fault for its expanse
promises to snarl his shadow from my shoulder
invites me into its limbo
desperately whines my title
it calls with little confidence,
but I linger to step in
flecks of gray interrupting the black
wafting,
purposeless black
will I?
will I live, wander the world's breadth
with the impetus of two dead legs
or will I become a cry of breath?
I flirt with two dooms,
swinging like a two-phase-moon;
stay, go, stay, go
weighing the whimper of my soul
against brain's drive to die alone
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Isn't all this,
That we do,
Just a sheer waste of time?
All this could finish right there,
The earth could end,
With a sign nowhere.
What is the purpose of this?
We all are born,
We all live, we all survive,
We all struggle,
And a few shine,
When this could end any moment,
Isn't all this a sheer waste of time?
Why do we work hard,
If unsung we all have to die;
Why is it so difficult
To say goodbye?
Does reincarnation really take place?
Or is this planet actually,
Just a figment of somebody's imaginative space?
So much of hard work,
Is put into those inventions.
Life is pretty complex,
With all those tensions.
What if the the world had to end,
At this very time,
Before you could even read this line?
This is all so purposeless,
We are fighting with our inner selves.
We are completely oblivious
Of what's out there;
About the big picture,
We have no clue,
We don't even think about such stuff,
Since we are busy with our own blues.
Caring for somebody,
Or letting out a whine,
If no one is listening,
Isn't all this a sheer waste of time?
What if our prayers are not heard,
Rather, are merely coincidents?
What if the moments we wish for,
Are already destined to happen the next?
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
Life is the flat side of a butter knife-
Relentlessly turned upwards, upon a
Battered cedar coffee table. His muffled
Silver skin glistens amidst the two week
Old newspaper and hardened crumbs of
Sourdough toast, catching the reflection
Of his weary hosts, as loud voices and silence
Rapidly bounce off the walls and onto his
Credit card-thin body:
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Purposeless, he waits for someone to rescue him-
Pick him up from his five foot grave
Covered in peeling wood and sentimental scratches,
And slowly slide his cold, frame across the counter-
Anything to remind him of his relevance.
As the rusty butter knife lays, abandoned,
So life carries on- oblivious to his melancholy
Wails that fall dormant to the loud, blaring stereo,
And shifting feet that tread so softly
As to keep the monster from waking from her slumber.
Thus, the routine drones on and on,
To the soundtrack of 2am infomercials
Claiming indestructible silverware sets:
Oh, but they have yet to enter the finite world of Father Time.
As he sets his place at the table, wearily awaiting what's to come,
The butter knife exhales hope, and suffocates in an air of subtle indifference,
Claiming his stake as a hollow prop, within an afflicted stage.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
I’ll catch the summer breath in your hair
The receding waves cast their nets and retire
Vacant white tumbles free
And I’ve set my sights to a horizon I’ll never meet
You cradle fears and hopes
Inside wild ambition, escaping youth
I’d want to escape for reasons other than
The unstable hues of you
I’ve often watched the lines reach your eyes
And spun a tale of bliss from blindness
Never knowing whether the shores of your beginning
Will meet the ends of mine, at all
In starlit night I’ve touched affection
The purposeless cry mixed with human interpretation
Shifting from beauty to a sheltering ache
Makes me wonder if I’m fleeting like the days left in our wake
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
I'd been waiting for you
on purposeless summer days,
when warmth would kidnap
my breath and my will.
I wished for rain to clean my soul
of unwanted excuses,
of unpleasant nights
when unforgiving thoughts took over.
I want your colours to overwhelm
my grey lens,
and your taste of death
to remind me that I'm living.
With you, I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff,
lip biting my courage
into daring to take the plunge.
Oh, my-
I might be flying.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
its weird to live
where past and future pulls you
in its black hole
emptying every essence of you
like you are nothing.
its weird to live
where original
is covered with fakes
and being original are
labelled as freaks
its weird to live
where people look
at your mistakes
when the already have
loads of their own.
but its beautiful
to live in the world
where words help me
to escape my own truth
and find peace
its beautiful
that even though life
seems meaningless and purposeless
the meaning of some collective words
makes living purposeful.
RUBY..........
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
Once there was a little duck,
Who felt so all alone.
Little did the ducky know,
He could just pick up the phone.
The little duck had no hope,
He was filled with such despair.
He felt his life was purposeless,
And he was a waste of air.
So one day the little duck
Dove to the bottom of the pond.
He was prepared to leave this world,
And see what was beyond.
But another duck saw him dive,
And dove right after him.
She brought him up,
And hugged him close,
And they went for a swim.
She told him that she knew his pain,
And used to feel the same,
But together they could swim all day,
And close friends they became.
The little duck no longer felt
Quite so all alone,
And with his new friend by his side,
This world now feels like home.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 12:08 AM UTC