"purposelessness" poems
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the ********
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Do you ever feel as though you’ve fallen asleep for days at a time? Where you methodically move through life without any feeling but that forlorn sense of purposelessness you get while grasping for the details of the dream that made you throw your naked body out of bed freezing cold and dripping sweat that tastes like an awful lot like tears? Where it feels like you really should be able to coil further into yourself than your ******* knees will bend just so you could be away for a while? But then a breeze shifts and with it carries the smell of the sea or the sun shines through leaves leaving trees casting shadows over the sidewalk and wakes you stop in your tracks and look up and remember the sky is blue and that time when you were young and your parents let you think you got away with it? You start to sing as you sit in commuter traffic to drown out car horns and you forget that you’re bad at it? Between songs grinning because there’s one last bag of rice in the kitchen for one more meal before you go to bed and hope you're still awake when you get up again?
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Purposes as incomprehensible and wonderful as these purposes
Either you had no purpose or the purpose is beyond the end
The purpose of sitting is not to be satisfied or satiated
Because the timepiece not only serves a purpose, it is adapted to that
purpose
Except it was a secret purpose
The world is a mental activity, a dream of souls, without foundation,
purpose, weight or shape
People in collective idleness are even more repellent than when purpose
motivates them
God, glass, my townspeople! For what purpose?
His purpose and mine is to catch photons and store them in our bones
Lately, as have you, I have thought about our war and its purpose
To have a season for every purpose, Ecclesiastes was right about that
Names of plants, languages of mammals, purposes of insects, placement
of rocks
My friend who is counselor to kings and presidents never lacks purpose
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Not to say there is no purpose necessarily, I just don’t immediately get it
Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet, death
for the right cause
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose, protect the
young from the janjaweed, the crop from the ****
The knight, the penitent misses last assessment of life’s purpose,
babbling for God to appear
I mean your entire purpose should be living, you must take living
seriously
Sleep with a purpose
Or lose all purpose beyond ****** child *** and food hoarding
Counting is associated with primitive forms of writing, that is the
purpose of poetry
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders
Their corners sharp, their lines exact, as if their purpose was to show
the plane geometry of snow
That’s when everything becomes clear, purpose v. purposelessness
matters less
Lonely physics, national purpose
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
We will live with the question What was our purpose?
If we are not at home in the world, contributing purpose, we lose our
desire to stay here—and we die
The men who left the machine have started their own business, a new
endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful
You go the way of an unknown soldier, unable to assess the purpose of
the battle
Let Greece then know my purpose I retain, nor vex with new treaties my
peace in vain
And shake the purpose of my soul no more
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
What is the meaning of Life?
Does that not state there is in fact a meaning to our lives? Are we not conceived with a blank slate and let our actions be guided by the environment we have become accustomed to or is there a true predestined meaning to our lives? Is it neither? We are nothing more than what we are and nothing less than what we are not.
What is my purpose?
Purposelessness.
What is God?
God is what leads me in the direction that I am heading and keeps me away from where I have not gone. God is not in the endless skies watching my every action. God does not know me. I don’t know God. God is not a being. God is not energy. God is not matter; God is not made of protons, neutrons, electrons or photons. God exists. We made God exist. We also made God disappear.
What is reality?
The tangible and physical perceptions that we have keep in our memories. As soon as we forget, reality disintegrates. When we remember, reality regenerates. Reality is not constant.
Why am I here?
Spontaneity
How did I get here?
I managed to avoid every other place than where I am. If I averted where I am now I would be someplace else. I would be any place else. Am I happy? Yes. Am I upset? Yes. This experience is beautiful yet full of dismay and I experience comfort but sorrow for only being able to experience a small sliver of the universe. But this is my sliver of the universe. I love this sliver of the universe and I would fight to the death to save this tiny space for anybody else to experience existence the way I do.
Who and What am I?
I am human, **** sapient, **** hominine, hominid, primate, Mammalia, Chordate, and Animal. I am an Earthling from the Milky Way. I am what I am labeled, by others and by myself. I am defined by everything I am not and I change every day. I am not constant.
What will happen when I die?
Transcendence from existence; Appearance into eternal rest. My body will provide nutrients to the world, my memories will be lost. I will no longer be, except in the minds of those who knew me and in the evidence I leave behind. I’ll be lost forever, the evidence will soon disappear. I will be over, the universe will go on. That’s all I could ever ask for.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
there are vanilla scented candles
and plaid scarves,
acrylic paints of every ******* colour
and wool socks,
a closet full of pretty dresses
and a bookshelf full of good reads
but I’m not happy
there is laughing
there is smiling
there is feeling good
sometimes
but I’m so unsatisfied
with what I’ve got
though I seem to have just about
everything
I have a good mother
I have friends that care
I have blankets
I have good teeth
I have rubber boots
some people say I have nice legs
I have compassion
I have the drive to create
I have trees
I have long hair
some people say I have kindness
I have a bus pass
I have a new job
I have flexibility
I have enough money
some people say I have talent
but I’m unappreciative
and hard on myself
still
there are booked gigs
and improv shows,
interesting conversations
and instruments,
trees and leaves and twigs
and pinecones,
the sky,
the zoo,
the cafes
but I get insecure most of the time
there are long hot baths
and biting nails,
then painting nails,
then repainting nails
and biding time,
then hating time,
then being okay with time,
there are long stares in the mirror
sometimes glares
sometimes there are puffy eyes
there is frustration
in my fingers
in my head
in my voice
at the piano
on stage
being vulnerable in a crowd of cool actors and musicians
fear of being seen
fear of being unseen
fear of doing it WRONG
fear of looking stupid
looking ugly
looking pathetic
sounding stupid
sounding ugly
sounding pathetic
there are dreams of leaving
this city
this head
these people I have known
for what seems like forever
there are dreams of healing
and loving my skin
and the natural amount of fat
that is underneath it
there are dreams out there
there are so many of them
that I’m afraid to wish
that I’m afraid to think of
from caution of them not happening
from caution of disappointment
and loneliness
and neediness,
then purposelessness
there is wanting
and wanting
and wanting
something better
I don’t know what
just something better
but waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for it to come to me
instead of
trying
and going
and getting
it myself
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
My skin burns
The beverage condensates
I am awaiting nothing
Wishing for no one
The grass stands tall
I no longer bow my head
To the sky above
I followed nature and was left
With purposelessness
The joints in my body
Feel young and light
The blood in my veins
Pump through the chambers
In my chest
Over and over and over
I am alive
I sit under the sun
And remember the universe
Inside me
I forget my small existence
I don't care about my small existence
In this galaxy
I experience purposelessness
And become one with nature
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
Appointment to have ***** removed by robot-assisted surgeon.
Air-conditioned, no mosquitoes in the OR. When you arrive
You'll remove all your clothes. Naked before the ladies, nurses
Who have seen it all before. Mainly remember you're not unique.
Think about the government while they're mixing up the medicine.
There's always governance even if there's little or no government.
Back to counting backwards. Inside out, if I die, will I know it?
At 70, Jack's running the gauntlet with some skill!
Benny Golson wonders aloud what might have been
Had Clifford Brown not been killed in that auto accident.
Jack's girlfriend once said he was the reincarnation of Clifford
But he doesn't believe in ghosts, karma or an afterlife.
Benny's old girlfriend Betty inspired the tune Along Came Betty
And that's the most afterlife Benny or Betty's gonna get.
The Trojan bench being not as deep as the Greek
Once Sarpedon and Hector go down even the lucky shot
To Achilles' feet is not enough to save the town.
Aeneas is no match for wily Odysseus
Although unbeknownst to all he has the last laugh when Rome
Conquers Athens, the Myrmidons, what's left of Ilion
And the whole known world from India to Britain.
It's not bad to acknowledge death's primacy
Although after a while you stop remembering
To fear. That's when everything becomes clear
Purpose v. purposelessness matters less,
Anomie v. rule of law, that's a preference
Love v. loneliness, worth about 25 cents
Or a million bucks in the light of the holocaust.
Nothing but light, love and the majesty of death in the room.
Machines stand ready like marines, their beauty is in the motion
That overcomes inertia. The food supply is deeply compromised
So eat whatever you want. Mourning the dead is part of the business
Of healing and staying alive. When you get to the afterlife, walk with
eyes open,
Ocotillo and cactus may be in flower. The robot does the work,
imposes
Its own small order, like a girl on a bicycle with disorder in her hair.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
It's blinding
how many stars there are.
Not just millions,
but trillions of blazing specks
that are just floating,
burning in absolute nothing.
And they do it for no reason,
there's no goal that unites them,
no yoking drive or resolution
other than the pure instinct to just do,
to just be.
And despite all this
purposelessness
they still burn with the hottest of fire,
unfathomable fire.
Kinda makes me jealous.
But somehow
people only wonder how.
In fact, they dedicate their short lives
just to answering that one tiny question
about these things we see at night.
But what I'm wondering is why.
Why so many?
Why trillions of these things just there burning?
You'd think we ought to have figured it out by now.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
I. Éclaboussure
I drew a handful from my bag of words and splashed them across the canvas of life painted dark, dark, dark. (oil colour: shades of pain, and purposelessness).
I saw stars splattered across the night sky. And misty spiral halos.
How do I know this light is for real? This bright star here, might long be gone - ancient light.
All events are done before we are aware.
Who is the witness? Is there a canvas?
II. Montage
How do I know. Splattered across. Misty spiral halos. Dark dark dark. I drew a handful. I saw stars.
Gone - ancient light. Who is the witness? Canvas of life painted. Before we are aware.
(Oil colour: shades of pain. Is there a canvas? This bright star here. All events are done.
And pain and purposelessness. And splashed them across. The night sky.)
Might long be. And. From my bag of words. This light is for real.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
How do you describe it? The feeling you get deep down inside yourself when your looking down at her? When you hold her frail hand in yours and grasp it as if you could lend some stability to her fragile mortality. When you see her and see everything that escapes those around you.
You see yourself in her, in her dimming eyes because when she is gone she takes a part of you with her. You feel responsible for the wrinkles around that shade of somber blue because you know the exact way she squints a little when she’s laughing; when she smiles. You know the way she gathers her anxious feelings in the crease between her brows. You see all your childhood, all your life and love and existence mapped out on her aged skin like a map to the parts of yourself you could never quite find, never quite understand. You see the scar on the tip of her index finger where she prodded herself on the tip of a seam ripper while mending your torn heart. You are perceptive to the way she has shrunk under the weight of all of her disappointments and hopelessness’ in equal parts with your own and you wonder how, in the perfect silence interrupted only by her shallow breaths, you will ever see anything else. You begin to wonder how you will ever find yourself. And you shudder when her stare focuses in and out like her consciousness, like her memories giving you glimpses of the things being torn from you. Like a phantom limb a place in your chest aches where things once were only to discover empty space a lack of movement when you try to use it. I see anger at her life, at her death, I see loneliness and hopelessness, I see laughter and tears, confusion and purposelessness, I see abandonment and acceptance, I see vulgarity and patience,
I blink
And see only the greatest of absence I have ever known,
And I remain where I am with my eyes clinched closed
Afraid only to see what I can’t.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Writing is not only an inspection of the world, it is the inspection of the self-contained world. The self realizing it's own purposelessness, and the seeming fruitlessness of the fight against the battering ram of its conclusions; so the self fights for freedom against this self-oppression, fights for a galvanizing truth with its self-contained ball of fire that burns weakly inside of it as the world outside goes bumping in the night blindly. Writing forces you more inward than outward. It is the inner world that re-lights the outer world; against all the blighting anvils in this tiny green universe.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
which breaks the faceless crowd
a gush of blissful warmth
soothing as autumn sun
fiery as raging storm
the earthiness of fields
and scent of blooming slopes
the wilderness of sky
a bustling city's soul
she is the riddling key
hint of a dreamy life
window which breathes the sun
blesses my being with shine
a nebula of birth
crucible of synthesis
my sermon on the mount
my fall into abyss
complexity of life
simplicity of smile
the fleetingness of wind
purposelessness of time
a father's solemn wish
a mother's selfless prayer
immortal as the sea
lover's listless despair
patience of dormant seeds
the certainty of death
innocence of a child
preciousness of breath
vapors of firmament
helplessness of loss
a tease of sun and clouds
the curiousness of God
she is the judgment day
a dream of languor warmth
the solace of my pain
cast in a fervid form
for she is all there is
and all there'll ever be
an era of romance
the reason for my being
as tranquil rainbows dim
and stars bestow a treat
my muse forever sought
i yearn the day we'll meet
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
All Understanding uncovers
ugliness, usury.
Unifying utopians
uncorruptable,
unmoveable.
Dashing Prophets promoted
promiscuous personalities.
Promethus’s powers
persisted
purposelessness.
Do Postmodern proletariats
protest phantoms?
Puckering proudly,
pondering
paraphrases?
If Egyptians engineered
excessive egoists,
Englishmen evolved
ethical
endgames.
Tradition Rules reformed
rednecks, remobilizing,
romanticizing, recursions
rose
remarkably.
If Caesar costumed
cabals crafted carefully,
Christianity calibrated
circumferential
conflicts.
Vigilantism Unveils unlucky
usurper, undoes underachieving,
unemotional, unconsciousness
unlearning
unhumanness.
Every Tadpole’s talents
triumphs titan’s tricks
tip toeing
towards
truth.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
I stare into the abyss of a cracked mirror
Into the gateway to my soul
I find only ashes
Not a single ember remains
No hope of rekindling those flames
Just a barren field, cold and dark
I stumble through days now
Weeks pass each time I glance
From this stack of paper I bury myself in
Exhaustion bleeds through the creases
In the corners of my empty eyes
Tired, this domicile is already vacant
The owner packed up one day
Never saying where he was going
And just left
No bills were payed
So the lights just went out
Left collecting dust
Past hoping the tenant returns
Waiting patiently for condemnation
For the wrecking ball to swing
To and fro
Eagerly and Anxiously awaiting
The first strike
Walls crash down
Boards crack and give way
Bricks soar through the air
As shingles fall in slow motion
The type of chaos
That is pure freedom
Freedom from keeping these walls up
For so long with nothing to keep them up for
That type of empty purposelessness
Destroys and rots the insides
Leaves you so tired
Just so **** tired
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Inside, I ache, I hurt, I am hallow.
I want my heart beat back.
But in order to get it back,
I have to surrender to you.
Part of me loves you.
Part of me hates you.
I am fighting against you.
Do I keep on with the dreams that you gave me?
Or do I **** them so that I can move on...
If I move on, I have to **** you in my heart.
I don't want to.
I want to feel your presents when I am scared.
I want to feel you holding me when I am about to fall.
But I am not beautiful.
I am not successful.
I have not achieved anything.
I must do this without you.
I must become successful on my own.
I feel like I am dying.
The most intense pain consumes me.
It is the pain of loneliness,
of purposelessness,
of the deepest sorrow that can't be put into words.
I want to be naked before you.
I want you to see my sin,
my pain,
my hurt.
I want you to tell me that you love me,
that you are the only thing that I need,
the only one that I need to keep me alive.
BREATHE SOME LIFE INTO ME!
STRIP AWAY MY STUBBORN SOUL!
SO THAT I CAN COME HOME TO YOU!
No more telling people of my sin.
No more telling people of the ache within me.
It is my secret.
It is my slave, or I guess I am its.
GOD! I have taken away the life that you have given me.
But how can I let you back in.
I can't. I can't. I can't.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
I have tried for too long
to fit into your various segments
I have played the roles of
Christian
Passionate lover
Rebellious son
The perfect one-night stand
Intelligent workplace hero
Humble soccer talent
Competitive PC gamer
College graduate, master's holder
Friend with benefits
Big earner
*** addict in recovery
Devoted husband
Home updater
Fun party guy
Deep-thinking poet
Music-lover, dancer
I fit into none of the roles you have to offer.
I am a primate with a more sophisticated brain and a cleaner body. I declare this with reluctant disappointment.
An observer would see our race developing, bodies and populations increasing in complexity and order; patterns like cities, data flowing through fiber cables, and social constructs aligning like carbon atoms becoming a diamond.
But we will not reach the perfection of a lab-created stone.
We have significant inclusions,
The most glaring of which is purposelessness.
Is there anyone watching?
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Life, a spark in the black of Aeon and All.
Consciousness defining purposelessness
Before wisping insensately for an infinity.
I want a more vast definition
To halt Aeons call of vanishment and dissipation,
To bask in frivolity.
Making meaning for amusement,
Amusement for meaning.
Luminescence
Among fading stars.
All sparks must fade though.
So when that day comes,
I'll see you on the other side of infinity.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
It's not in loneliness.
There are many like him
It's not in not having
for whatever he has
means nothing.
It's not in despair
for it is pain
that means he's living.
It's not in facing
his utter purposelessness
and cherishing it,
because that's all he has.
It's not in recognising
his own meaninglessness
and finding meaning,
because that's all he knows.
It's in moments of brief escape,
in tiny deaths
in dreams
and waking dreams,
where he is awake.
It's in seeing
the others
and knowing they weren't made the same.
They were made perfect,
unable to question their existence:
to not know such pain.
It's in his utter contempt
for his fellow man;
His blind hatred
for all living beings.
It's in a world
in flames
and falling apart
where he finds peace.
Prowling the earth
sparing nothing.
Only a cruel God
could've made
such a sorry beast.
And the beast stares into himself
and coldly confronts his own emptiness
He does not know why.
Agony to be awake.
To live is to die.
That's the pain of being human.
Cast down into the chaos of history.
To be born and to die, for nothing
it seems.
And to go on, without question;
without knowing
what it means.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
“how would a man live
if he neither
fully
believes in rationality,
nor in God?
how would a man resolve
the paradox of
meaningful existence
and yet, the
purposelessness it brings?
how would a man find
comfort in
fellow men who are
as equally as you,
mortal?
how would a man understand
Creation when he is
the Created,
and part of
the Plan?”
the blind one asked.
“how is it man’s obligation
to answer these doubts?
how could man not see,
that his duty is to
live,
not question,
not answer?”
the wise one reveals.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
to avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
induces existential angst i confess.
Today (end of rope rhyme rote
approximately deux orbitz round the sun),
i wanted ta die and bid god riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave,
de deum, and cymbal crash
to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych *** under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide
while n the edge of thirteen -
Anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience
10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash
lacerating, flagellating,
and repeatedly rousing thoughts
shin to circle back to why death be not proud
when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity,
and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the (then) lvii roam min years
as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter
the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance
targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled
from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward
of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate
a con ***** dancer, cuz ova this rude half
re: that came a boot
from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
you are a breath
of fresh exuberance,
but also of nihilism
and the way cold air tastes
how do i make you
begin to fall for me
in the way that i might
want you to
without seeming like i'm
pushing you to the edge
of what is safe versus
what is good?
is it wrong that i miss
the innocence of new love,
that i'm dreaming of the moments
i haven't felt in years,
or that the nausea
of my bones shaking through
my knees is a feeling which
i would worship to receive?
the idea of your presence is
more overwhelming than that
of your physicality, for when
time stops at least i can visualize
the idea of you.
it is more than the idea of you.
it is that dreamy trance of youth
near midnight, when the lights
overtake your reality and the music
drums in your ears and all
which is visible becomes all which
is love, it is love in its truest
and purest form. or even the late
night conversations dripping
with the beating of hearts and
the urgency of dramatics,
and although we know of its
purposelessness, we still try
to fix it for our own sakes.
it is the feeling of staying up
and out way too late, of road
trips, of the rips in the knees
of your favorite jeans, and the
way you readjust your hair when
you think nobody is looking.
you will never fall for me
in the way i might want you to,
but as long as i have your hand
to hold in this tempest of sorts
the metaphor will become reality
and it'll all be okay.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
Disconnect, disjoint, unified, detached, distant, afar, separate, divorced, abstracted sovereign, removed, apart.
There’s a feeling, I have between us.
And please do share if it’s mutual,
and please do share if it’s intentional.
But we’re whatever words you’d use to say,
Apart,
Unreachable,
Distant.
If I shook your hand the urge to wash it,
would overwhelm you. Overcome you.
Control you.
This stench you contrive around me,
this taint I have upon my skin.
Is only in your eyes.
Wipe them clear or steep in your lies.
I’d love to connect with you, live with you, laugh with you.
But this separation, this gap you spread.
Isn’t in my best interest.
To be down right honest.
I don’t ******* care for it one bit.
The removal you push, is displeasing.
It’s un-easing.
******* sick of it.
Sick of wasting time on it.
100 years or less.
You push us apart, there’s no time for it.
You divide into cliques.
A pyramid’s not hard to climb,
you just have to be ignorant, and self loathing.
But you can rest easy, you’ve climbed to the tippy top.
Where reality escapes you, and your induced separation clings to you.
But you hold it as tight as it holds you.
I can leave you alone up there, But accept my pity for you in your:
Lonesome
Isolation
Purposelessness
Blindness
Sadness
Hatefulness
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 7:54 PM UTC
Toward Material Trappings
Gold and silver upholds
true value capitalist money tree
Thrown down upon gaunt
lit alter of Midas,
treasured as current sea
Countless denominations
cashiered legal tender to grant
Rich Midas, who straddles
diamond compound,
billed as sacred Kant
Tickles with dollar signs
motley foolish crue scrambling
towards drawbridge gate
Pedestrians malingering
hungry thirst
for wealth of nations to satiate
Inexorable appetite
for wanton money to amass
Fuels reverence
all that glitters even brass
Whence madding crowd
behaviour cruel and crass
Deplorable if perceived
from one-way looking glass
Fool hardiness to revere
what beast called money,
lucre, and green back
Can buy - sweeping across
World Wide Web
scarring globe on fast track
Toward accumulating
high excess lavish life harried style
parade with pomp
and swiftly tailored circumstances while
Ninety nine percent
of less wealthy live hand to mouth
Envying those billeted
behind sealed mansions
east, west, north and south
Except this dollar less chap,
who could not give a rat’s ****
For ka-ching melodic sound
twenty four seven that does swoosh
In burlap sack clothes
and bank accounts preferring
to slog and push
Along boulevard of broken dreams
that resembles nothing but mush
Yet preference prevails
foregoing attachment
to government sanctioned loot
Freeing mind and body trying
to cherish voluntary simplicity,
which does suit
This quest for knowledge seeking writer,
who disparages
tooting his own horn
Nor imposing personal philosophy
that gives reason exuberantly to exhale
Versus vacuity and purposelessness
sans, blind faith toward Holy Grail
Goading most people to persevere
for millions of bucks over hill and dale
Despite owning next to nothing,
yet detaching psychological
bond that doth choke
Ability to experience unfettered psyche
likened to oxen iron bound yoke!
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
Purposelessness is a slow inferno.
You know you are not dying the next second, but the theatrical capabilities of your mind projecting the potential failure future kills you.
In fact, worse, it doesnt let you live.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC