"senselessness" poems
Your lies could stretch for miles
And I'd still hang on your every word
As if your voice was a buoy
In my sea of senselessness.
I long to love you
The way you should be loved,
But I'm not sure how you'd handle truth
If it were to wrap around your tongue.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Strangers looking in my direction
Because I am strange to them
Their hawkish hostility
Meets with my awkward awareness
I clutch on to my pride
One of the few possessions I have left
My dignity is long gone
I feel bare on the road to nowhere
My feelings of hope
Have been pushed aside by hunger
The never ending guilt
And the gloomy sense of senselessness
We used to be alike
United in our pursuit of happiness
Once a human being, now a beggar
Bound to be a burden
From citizen to refugee
I washed up on these shores
Once a human being, now a stranger
To my hawkish, hostile hosts
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
I want you to destroy me
because I know you'd enjoy it.
Rip me to shreds because that's what
I'll be if it means you loving me back together again.
And again.
And again.
What we've got is so horrible,
so painful, so honest, such a raw,
destructive, quality to what we call
"us" that it would almost be masochistic to go back.
Our brand of senselessness,
so alluring, and irresistibly passionate.
I cannot fathom the blandness of sanity.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
On my darkest nights
I awaken in the ocean
lost
your constellations branded
against the back of my tongue.
A bloom of tattooed moonlight
the senselessness of slumber--
though this ocean swallows me,
I will stay afloat.
Promise you will come.
When the light embraces dark
when the planets fade like scars,
promise.
So that we
might be the moment
of everything.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
The darkest nights
Are always those you must face alone
No knight in shining armor
Will appear until it’s already dawn
You're your only savior
Must create sense of this senselessness
Answers only exist inside your own abyss
Depend on no one, dear
You’ll only regret
Yourself Is all you’ve really got
So never lose sight of your own heart
They’ll lie
They’ll cheat
They’ll steal
They’ll die
They’re never really there
You’re all you’ve got, my love
Until time makes you see
The deepest beauty lies within
Your own insanity
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
Hanging around the old cabaret,
where nighthawks steal glances
at the curators of tired eyes,
the walking dead take leave
of their senselessness
entering blurred reality
Someone calls for another round
shouting fire down his throat as
A dart nicks the narrow space between
two fates and falls to the floor
avoiding both,
leaving him in a rage
She pockets the change they left her
or forgot, while
laughs infuse the acrid smoke,
ricocheting into nothing
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Speaking with words of a thousand accents
Lost to a tragic void of human senselessness
That devours morality of Heavens sent
Lyrics turn to turmoil a prodigal life spent
Never to return in complacency or content
Injustice of the highest caliber we spend
Teaching immorality trivial aspects of human anger vent
Stumbled upon years of inconsitencies and torment
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
I sit outside the jail house, this Sunday afternoon.
I watch the parade of people, going in and out so soon.
The visits here, come and gone. Time swiftly passes on.
The sadness shows on each face for the one which they belong.
The mother walks with their child, quietly through the door
To see a father not coming home, for many days or more.
They sit and wait so patiently for their short time to be
For twenty minutes on the phone, their “daddy” they will see.
So close are they but yet so far, no touching through the pane.
Fingers spread, hearts are breaking, their future down the drain.
The question on the little lips, will daddy come home now?
Soon, we hope, my dear child, maybe next week, somehow.
The parents come to visit him, with thoughts of shattered dreams.
The hopes they had for many years, are gone, so it seems.
They put on a smile, push back fears, to keep alive some hope.
They wonder “why, what went wrong, how will we ever cope?”
The pain inflected, bad decisions, when drugs have taken hold.
Ruined lives of those around them, the broken promise told.
His family grieves the senselessness, of life’s potential lost.
Hope now seems a fleeting dream, the family pays the cost.
Then comes a chance from the judge, “six months” he did say.
“To turn your life around for those who care for you, today.
A broken promise turns months to years, so get it right this time.
Don’t let them down, keep hope alive, as from this hole you climb.”
A broken life, a shattered dream, seems lost in the eyes of man.
When darkness falls, and hope is gone, when all has hit the fan.
God can mend the broken life, He turns darkness into light.
Forgiveness comes to those who ask, through grace and mercy’s might.
For those who choose to dream a dream of a better life to see.
Those who choose to change their hearts, the chains fall off, they’re free.
They turn their back and walk away from the old life to sever.
Redemption is a choice away, where lives are changed forever.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
Shadowy showdown,
So slithery, slippery, snake stand.
Eyes yield eight years of restlessness,
While baggy eyes droop like mind stuck in senselessness.
Truly traumatic tales told tons of taints,
and trucking thoroughly through the thorns turn to turn.
Thus the mind shall riddle more maze like a mused upon mused,
for nothing shall keep a mind stagnant but the thoughts unamused.
Proclaim profound process profusely,
While prance protruding proponent proud processes.
Stand straight, so sight searing senses sought,
And stir strength seeping souls.
For truest of devotion must be expressed from the inner self,
even if slithery, slippery, snake, stand for a showdown!
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
My mother recently took me to another doctor
she said, ‘her condition is becoming outrageous ,
she hasn’t laughed in a year, avoids any talking,
never leaves the house until the night draws in. ’
And I think the sun should rather concern her.
Burning things don’t make good companions.
Bought a ticket for a train, northbound at night,
my eyes hurt from the condolences of daylight.
Went back south in September, I surrendered,
had to promise to be good again and presentable.
Indifferent on life, did I suffer from depression?
It’s not been an illness but a philosophic decision.
One Sunday, it was quiet during breakfast time,
somebody from town recently took their life.
Rised brows behind the newspaper’s edges,
secretly, I admire the courage and recklessness.
But I act eager and am polite with relatives,
at holiday occasions I behave and give kisses
until one proposes a toast to life being a gift.
I say nothing in exchange, I feel guilty to exist.
It all changed one day, when I found me a lover.
He sins for amusement while I sin to self punish.
I love that he’s mortal, of a perishable texture,
hope to be buried, rot with him in the graveyard.
We agree on senselessness without any pity,
he watches me fail life and thinks it’s poetic.
We can’t hurt since there’s nothing to heal from.
A physical love wich in it’s essence is platonic.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 5:54 PM UTC
The night is closure for me.
Filled by the sound of piano notes,
Guitar strings warming the darkness.
Losing myself in the sound.
The light music plays softly,
But seems so loud in the closing night.
A background melody calms me down,
Composing the perfect tune.
I forget my surroundings,
Complete senselessness overcomes me.
A classic lullaby helps me drift,
I forget my existence.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
The Sun & Earth
23.5 tilted degrees
North Pole & South Pole
Equator
Tropic of Cancer
Tropic of Capricorn
and Meridians
North/South/East/West
Hemispheres
Equinoxes
Solstices
Four seasons
Astronomical phenomena
Today at where I live——
On northern hemisphere
The Garden of Eden
A local Home Depot
The Sun will directly hit
The Tropic of Capricorn
giving us the longest night
and abandoning the North Pole
All it has remembered
is the pole on the other end
Where penguins, whale seals,
and albatrosses will bathe
whole day in full brightness
at -15 degrees Fahrenheit
What a chilling exhilaration!
Could I run away from
this so called winter solstice
this unbearable darkness
this senselessness of
obscurity and wickedness
Could I go to the South Pole
and dance with the penguins?
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
When did loneliness in a crowded room become a goal?
Eavesdropping on inspiration; indolence.
Like my art, pockets of brilliance are found
in the wreckage of a market town
with nothing left to sell. All those discordant
ideals of escape and of nothingness.
Still waiting for that ***** of light
which must always break through.
Isolation becomes a component of personality;
a need for space in overpopulated surroundings.
Like my art, pockets of living
congregate in moments torn from the clock face,
in lines of laughter and grief; the five o'clock champagne.
All that revel in maladjustment,
all who laugh at death,
those who had given up on The Lie.
When did my life reduce to words and symbols;
stealing poetry from the street-preacher's leaflets?
Like my art, pockets of reason
form amongst the senselessness of meaning;
how love sits different on every tongue,
how wine hits sweetly only in the need to run.
I have grown tired of running away,
this stalwart need for acceptance.
A want for a panic room,
a need to fall to pieces, undisturbed.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
What has become of my lost brothers?
Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
who fled from his blue mural
to the land of jazz and muffaletas
only to discover the senselessness of clothes...
Peter, the pine tree apostle,
who paved the way to indifference
on a needle point, silently
prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...
Time Crisis, the first disciple of
the salt or pepper Antichrist,
who physically assaulted his mind
in an attempt to defy gravity,
finally settling for three
squares and a cot...
Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
who, by some accounts, fancied
urinating in the face of his
keepers.
All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.
We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.
(do you want peace?)
We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless
(I make peace.)
We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).
The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;
(Come and be free in my sunshine.)
the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name
(Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
send them away bleeding and crying.)
We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.
(Visit my website and see...)
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
you know you take
words and some cement and glue
and you make them all stick together
into verse and poetry;
and you gather love like a rolling stone
and you blow wild seeds in the air
and you’ve got fine diction
and refined sentiments
and it’s made into a poem
and it all makes sense
oh baby,
it all makes too much sense
you work like Vivaldi
and make poems about seasons
or you work like Goethe
and pour roaring poetry
to outdo Shakespeare
and you frighten Edgar Allan Poe;
and you have great insight
like the Buddha or some Great Prophet
or Only One Savior
and you give us mighty fine inspired poetry
pure, pure spirituality;
or you just take Revelation
like the countless mindless followers
the Great Being has been plagued with since Inception
and you make verse
and oh, it all makes sense
it all makes too much sense
and you take my foibles, our foibles
and your poems
laugh at them
or you put fine words together and string beads of harmony
like a millions-dollar necklace
Richard Burton might have offered Liz Taylor
oh you know you make poems
that come across time and cyberspace
and they all maketh perfect sense
but
how about
baby
you and me make verse
that knocks out sense and makes no sense?
poetry that takes the mickey out of meaning?
no, not for a change -
but forever?
no, not for entertainment
but for nonsense?
so that senses is knocked senseless
and we escape you and me
to North Caledonia
to Paradise of rhythm and senseless-beauty
and we have a beat
and we have a pulse
and the street gang says in awe:
Oh, hey
see these two babies move
they’ve got the style
they’ve got the swing
Yeah, they’re a fine couple of babies!
so we got no sense
and sense-less is meaningless
so we got no sense in nonsense either
or senselessness for that matter
we got nothing baby
(well, nothing on as well)
but plenty of rhythm and sway
we drop all fine subjects
that determine our lives
so we are all freed of lies maybe
(we don’t know what will happen)
and we got the spirit of poetry
beyond sense and line and word and form and intent and purpose
and that gets all the universe rocking
(no doubt, there’s enough rock already)
baby
in one baby-making sway
how about that, baby?
you and me
abandon sense
and dance naked between planets and stars?
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
My understanding of things, important things, has left me.
It doesn't make sense, to make sense of this
How can it be, how can this follow a plan?
There is no plan, no divine decree or meant to be.
There is no reason, not for this, not for this.
Can we ask, or dare we, who hurts more, who hurts most
It doesn't matter. Heartbreak has no calculus
Apparently hurt, fear, isolation, loneliness, desperation, anger, and retribution don't either
I wonder if that's the the lethal parade,
and what's missing?
Abuse, neglect, weakness, genetics, propensities... Or just evil
Evil makes it simpler. Evil makes sense.
I need someone to blame, i want someone to blame,
because I'm angry...
And I want to make sense of it
No wait,
I'm sad and heartbroken and bewildered,
at the senselessness.
This just won't make sense.
But, I will awake tomorrow, my life, my wife and son and daughter, in tact.
What's left then,
when there's no moral,
no lesson,
no purpose to it?
Just to love and mourn and feel, and cry... For a while
It's hard to know, when there is no sense.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
Where marinated in our murky past
have we found justification for the travesties we do,
build prisons where our prejudice lasts,
and allow its prisoners to fester as they stew
I have felt this heat.
The flame which boils in the toils of others,
whose oils lick embers into wildfire.
And we fall back into the Dark Ages.
where minds who place burden on those with different skin
slink flicking flint to fire, raising from the earth
the walls we have spent decades taking apart one brick at a time.
one brick at a time,
comment by comment,
each passing moment
condone it.
ignore it.
passivity pays the builders of this monument.
who see no wrecking ***** to stop them.
passivity, fills the pockets of the petty
coin by coin collecting courage to speak
outwardly outrageous
slurred hate speech contagious
barbary amounts its fortress from our silence,
one brick at a time.
I have seen the origins of intolerance,
holding together the cinder blocks of utterance
all the moments we should have said something and didn't.
In my selfish silence I see senselessness slip past my snares.
In my hush I hear hate harrow the ventricles of hearts much weaker
than the speaker.
Loathing left untended like
loose mountain snow
will like an avalanche gain strength
in movement.
To you,
the architects of abhorrence
the creators of execration
I plead: lay down your urban dictionaries.
Know that you lay a foundation
whose structure will build up,
but whose existence will tear down.
To you,
those who watch the construction
and stare in silence sufferance,
know that although no sweat has fallen,
and no aid has been laid by your hand,
That this malicious monument is as much yours
as it is theirs, through your willingness to watch it go up
one brick at a time.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Here's the story told to me about our glorious infantry.
Louts,rapscallions,friends battalions
arm in arm and full of glee
marching off to join the infantry.
In the rear lines drinking fine wines,hock,moselle,some burgundy
and some drinking ginseng flavoured tea from some far flung idea of Empire
while only half a mile along the road the whole world was on fire,
were the fat arsed generals with their horses, waiting on their second courses,
crepes and franzipans and to a man they didn't care that the war was waiting there,
'let the ******** wait',they'd say,
after all that was the gentlemanly way.
The bullets striped us left to right and falling into our own falling ***** we'd call for mum and dad
aye lads
aye lads
war is bad
but for the buggers at the rear who never so much as once came near the sound of a gun,
war was fun a chance to socialise,
society is full of lies and leaders they were not.
But death's got their number on his shell,they'll soon be joining us in hell,
so ****** them and sod the lot
were in a spot,we'll not get home,splintered bone and mangled limb and corporal thinks it's still a sin to swear
well ****** him as well,we no longer care.
As we share a final smoke,Johnny tells his favourite joke about three generals and some place called,but I forget the punch line as the time has come for one more bullet,one more gun and silence.
In Croydon,Roydon and North of Watford Gap,families are spoon fed some wholesome krap from drip fed Sergeants,battle,shield and argent,honour King and all the other little things that the senselessness of death brings home.
Let them keep their fields filled full with glory,we know the ***** **** filled story,
war is bad
war is bad
I'm glad that I cant fight no more.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
She's the kind of girl who'd take a pregnancy test (after drinking two venti iced green teas) at a Starbucks restroom. She's the kind of girl who'd come close to overdosing on antioxidants and diet pills. She's the kind of girl who'd drink cheap velvet wine to the point of senselessness and obliviously karaoke to Radiohead's Jigsaw Falling Into Place at a distant city bar on an Autumn Tuesday night. She's the kind of girl who'd still be holding your wrong-doing hands underneath the sheets atop your bed at 4:03 AM.
She's the kind of girl I'd be if I had more of a heart and less of a mind.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
step one:
do not look at their mouth,
for you will expect to see rivers flowing from it,
poetry slipping through the space between their lips
in the same way that the wind slips through the space underneath a door,
but instead you will only see spit and saliva
and a tongue too big for its home.
step two:
do not look at their hands,
for you will expect them to craft cities from marble right before your very eyes,
but instead it will be just the thumbs,
the twiddling of thumbs,
the aimlessness, the senselessness,
the lack of experience with building empires.
step three:
do not look at their eyes,
for they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,
and when you see that the curtains have been drawn,
you will feel so very alone.
step four:
i did not love you.
you have to repeat it.
i did not love you.
i did not love you.
i did not love you;
i loved what i thought you would be.
i thought you would be eden,
but you were only the apple.
step five:
i suppose i am to blame here
for digging holes too big to fill,
for crafting shoes too big to fit in.
and for that i am sorry.
i am sorry that i expected more from you
than i even expect from myself.
step six:
human.
human.
let the word roll off and around your tongue,
let it cover every inch of the inside of your mouth.
say it. over and over again.
say it. like it is foreign and you need to know what it means.
say it.
and when you have said it enough times and it feels
dull, old,
disappointing,
you will know that we are nothing more than flesh and bone,
and that as much as we wish there were gods among us,
flesh always rots in the end.
this is the beast of truth that we cannot outrun.
hands cannot craft cities from marble
if only given clay.
step seven:
do not let this frighten you.
clay, after all,
was meant for molding.
(a.m.)
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
Crawling inside the depths
are fears of inadequacy and lose of hope...hopelessness.
Senselessness becomes rational where before it had no place.
Often when the spirit is momentarily uplifted
panic abounds of the ensuing crashing down by a broken heart.
Despite this familiar thought, right now this is not the concern.
Joy and harmony must rob the soul
of hurt, anger, and a shattered heart.
The tides of time do not stop for no one stone.
Take your stride soul; be as powerful as you can be.
Spirit be not afraid to kidnap this being
from self inhalation through self-inflicted pain.
Mend the leakage of this being's punctured heart.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 8:47 AM UTC
I'm hidden, nothing but these scars,
These sheltered lives, in sheltered cars,
Speed to sheltered homes and then,
Speed to sheltered work again,
And speed right past this homeless man,
This human litter, crushed tin can,
This empty packet of a life,
What are my troubles, or my strife?
Keep living sheltered lives and then,
Have sheltered kids and start again.
And stop us shadows leaking through,
To sheltered lives, from scaring you,
From opening up these barcode eyes,
What is your life without it's lies?
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
Full of senselessness.
he seeps
withers
grieves.
Arts and crafts for the soul.
forming thoughts out of visuals and sounds.
weaving
a basketful
of images to save in my memory bank ...
Occasionally documenting the silence.
itching and aching
raw and anxious
red and sticky.
warm.
deepening.
a candle is meant to melt
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC