"solipsist" poems
My mind is racing again
At 4:37 am
I wish my grades were as heightened
As my inability to sleep
I’ve been having nightmares
But they don’t scare me anymore
Sometimes
I find a comfort in knowing
That the monsters I’ve dreamt
Are a lot more pleasant than the monsters
I have left to dream
I don’t mind it
But I mind you
Only because you’re always on my
Mind
I pretend that I’m a solipsist ,
But I could have just made it up
Your love wasn't as real in my heart
(As it was in my head)
I am a shy little flower
Somewhere behind the trees
“There’s really no way to reach me”
But there is.
No one has taken the time to
Explore
I once met a girl
A traveler in that moment
She told me a story about her grandmother
Who was shipped to a boarding school in Germany right after WWII.
At the age of three
The first sentence she ever understood was:
"Everything is broken"
And she lived a whole life
With that silly little thought
Echoing.
Someday
I will find an ocean breeze
Worth calling my home
With sand as soft
As my tinder
Beating heart
Good night
Is a formulation of words
Whose meaning I am still
Unfamiliar with
As I walked along
Your art stricken walls
I wonder if I’ve ever really been capable
Of creating
But hardly ever do I strike an inspiration
I can call entirely my own
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
And so I'll like your selfie,
and I may send you an encouraging message.
Digitalized and marginalized
you exist upon a screen.
To me and my solipsist mind,
all that is real is all that is before me.
All that is after me is fiction,
something I, and millions of other poets may attempt to write,
but realness is lost.
It can be compared to trying to relay a first hand experience to another,
it is impossible to do completely.
I can tell you that the trees swayed nonchalantly and that the water was crisp and welcoming but you will never know what it was like to be on the lake that day.
If Jesus Christ himself were to tell me change my ways...
Put the music on repeat,
put the *** in the pipe,
pull the covers over your chest,
put your tongue inside my mouth,
and wake up,
I will do the same.
The thought of you,
the idea of you,
the digital image of you and everything you've said to me excite different parts of my body.
All these things excite my mind.
Your words excite the blood vessels in my cheeks and your body excites my groin.
I drink a tall glass of water,
I ********** thinking of you,
and I fall asleep hoping to dream of you.
I dream of you putting your tongue in my mouth.
My body excites in my slumber,
and though I only kiss you in my dreams,
I **** you in my shower.
I'm a mountain man dreaming of the desert,
and you're a Midwest girl dreaming of the ocean.
I want to feel your legs around my neck,
your hands held in mine,
and your tongue in my mouth and around my ****
I want this of her and her and him and her and you but I cannot have it.
So I've masturbated 3 times today and if the son of God told me to change my ways I might need to ********** twice, thrice more.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
*did you buy all of this on credit
and can you do without
going to ceremonies for awhile
look what higher learning
and empty rituals have given you
a distrust for humanity
and all that's truly valuable
are you a nihilist or a solipsist
what a life to be so twisted
like an elliptical esophagus
so strange the way we spell things
what would we do without
spellcheck or a dictionary these days
is a thesaurus a dinosaur or a literary device
the swelling went down
right in time for your dialectical revival
while didactic strange attractors are strangely repellent
selective attackers leave your marriages despondent
disparaged orthodontists leave fluids on your face
still you wipe your chin with sandpaper
and leave greasy finger stains in their place
fluoride is a bargain complete with its own argument
and quite often batteries are not included
but that doesn’t mean you’ll never use them
for what's a *** toy to do
if its lacking its adjacent latex compartments
or if you're really just not in the mood
i guess this human body will have to do
grooving to the music is all about our choosing to
becoming outdated or faded like a tax evader
these equations are meaningless
when you are fermented with libations
if you drink more amber liquid would you be negated
relevant for a moment and then
just as quickly discarded as a piece of paper
the receipts we diligently saved
are just as well used to light your fireplaces*
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
Up and down; a trend in life that continues to death and potentially thereafter.
My life has been a mesh of many strange moments, days, minutes, and hours... I have yet to completely shake the solipsist angst I coyly developed following the summer after my graduation from high school. Sometimes, I really do half-expect the world to cave into some psychedelic stop-motion I can't escape from, capable of only gazing in fear and realizing that I'm trapped inside the matrix.
Love, too, has assisted in bringing me a sense of release.. but it has also conversely caused lows to become lower as I now have more to lose (in a romantic context). My head buzzes with strange information and gazes at others content with a twinge of jealousy at times. There is a way out of this; I've seen it done before. But what alchemical combination can save a battered soul who can't be sure what the ultimate cause of the suffering is? It feels like a great part of it is my fault.. but the problem is how does one go about ceasing a toxic cycle in its tracks? Someone declaring, 'simply do this!' has only ever made it worse. But could that be a form of resistance on my part? Some lack of faith in myself or in the universe? How does one go about simply 'doing this'?
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
It's a slippery slope,
I hope you know.
Said the Solipsist
To The Fly.
Who was itself
A somewhat suspicious
Deliciously conspicuous,
Most likely maleficent,
Manifestation of a mind.
A specimen meant just to define,
A shade that shall not live,
A shadow that shall not fly.
Designed to be a metaphor,
To make its point and then to die.
Invested only to be digested
By imagination and an eye.
Where within it lingers lonely,
Solely stoic for a while,
For a time.
A casualty of entropy
Out of place,
Left behind.
Or maybe out in front,
Depending on your point of view,
However long thought takes to stew.
The Fly nodded sagely,
Behaved as if it knew.
Nonchalant with confidence,
The epitome of cool.
Giving all the right impressions
These digressions were understood.
As it landed ever closer
To sit upon the madman's shoulder
To show this silly, pseudo ******
How little he really knew.
That being said,
If all that is lives only in your head.
Could I trouble you for some of that stew?
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 9:29 AM UTC
Panic attacks are like deathless suicides
****
You're deader than a dead man because unnatural fasts
unnatural- fasts
solipsist dizz-
solipsist sip, mizz?
burn the boardwalk and walk the beach *** all of a sudden
life is too short to fuckit, later.
everything has to slither out like Satanic snakes offering the half-bitten apple
to Adam *** he got the other bit stuck in his Adams Apple and suddenly lost his voice,
** ** take that, prophecies of God!
Too tired to be the metaphysical rebel licking the slug slime off your toes as if you deserve the luxury,
smile again and I'll call you the prettiest pervert to ever strip down to your socks.
this is what a broad mind is,
I write this assuming weirder thoughts have flickered in your ******* lightbulb.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
acute autism... now that's a Moulin Rouge of fantasy, watching pure, un-inhibited solipsism in action!
autism is just a medical term
for the philosophical term solipsism,
in my dictionary someone who's
autistic is also someone who's a
solipsist... and to get the balance right,
to become a feline solipsist,
so un-inhibited, conjuring rain fall
with your own laughter after two beers,
blocking a mosquito entering your
room because of the rainfall,
that's something... and the other thing...
there are many more female (large)
mosquitoes in england, the ones
without the sharp pucker of a sting,
the larger ones, sized about the same
as a daddy-long-legs spider...
mosquitoes in england are rare;
and when it rains, the earth becomes
more porous, and the air becomes sweeter.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
A drop of water in an evaporating vial of water are you, a piano key that lays untouched and piled with dust. I touch a stone and I feel it’s presence, but form altered and frayed.
If I close my eyes, does the world disappear or does it live in another realm completely? A phantom I might be, a shadow in something that never has existed in the first place. A hand on the dream of a clock, constantly being wound and turned.
Eternally ticking.
I see a million eyes, we look at each other for a moment but only a moment. We see what we want, and if we don’t, we try to change the world to better our view of it. Our view is but a shallow thought. The loose ends of our subconscious, reaching, trying to branch out into a dream-like state.
I am never sure whether I truly wake up when my eyes open or close.
Gaunt faces are the same as lively ones. Smiles are the same as frowns. The ghosts tap their feet in rhythm to a slow beat. They dance into circles while the radio tells them what to do, what to say, how to feel. Projections on the side of the cave resonate in them and they follow. I follow…
I dance with them and I know that the dance will obliterate everything that might be real. I tap my feet.
Tomorrow was yesterday and today never happened. I am the man in the background of your thoughts, holding the mirror above his head. I am a thought, the mediocre absence of everything that we should have been. Close your eyes and you will see the void, you will see yourself. You exist to feel the void with half spoken words and broken promises.
A drop of water.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC
Anonymous!
Tell me what's her name my friend.
The one who stole your heart away.
Noisy siren, snatched your beautiful heart.
Entrapped in words ideal.
She powered by a pen.
Ignited by war my child.
Sometimes fired from summer sun.
Winter rain.
Hailstones biting.
Causing pain.
Sometimes cruel and vile.
Human love discarded.
Dumped on the pile
Words strung on a harpsichord score.
Lost love has a date with destiny.
Destiny wholly untrue.
Two anonymous writers.
Write day and night.
Sort of seeking recognition.
Potential footsteps lead to perdition.
Hope and pray not.
Their only prey is words.
My soliloquy she cries in solitude.
Solipsist by choice.
In her sophistication!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
occasionally, a flash of white page blankets her face like a pale Swedish summer
the video stream clunks along on solipsist angles, falling, waking, back, here here
pen on her tongue and I wonder where it's been, disease travels funny highways but the constant revelation of
one germ after another makes the body a well-protected warzone, immunity flaunts its immunity,
the pen picker probably protects the person a bit more aptly than the hand-sanitized middle-man afraid of the swine flu
blue blanket holds her shoulders like she's swimming in a lake of silly putty and her white teeth glisten because
she's lucky and no one ever notices their fortune when it's so close you can't see it.
turn around,
have you found it yet?
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
anything is possible. i don't mean this in a good way.
will you look at me while i'm talking?
not like that.
i know you are.
i want you to see me. i want you to keep up.
i could go completely ******* crazy.
i could never speak to any of my friends ever again.
i could join a fundamentalist christian cult.
i could drop out of college.
i could look into the mirror and see my own eyes reflected back to me, or gouge them out to be free of the burden. i could do anything, but it's all a matter of actualization.
you have to know what you're looking for
before you go out to find it.
the story the eyes try to sell you is always leaving something out.
you want this to be easy. you want the mirror to have a purpose.
don't we all?
you want to know what you want, but we are all stumbling blindly through this desert.
alone despite being inches from one another.
i'll try not to get too cocky,
because the only difference between you and me
is concept, language;
life is a whole other beast to cage.
don't get too hung up on definitions.
definitions are for law. this is poetry.
this is me building a mirror just to break it.
it's funny, how that always turns out.
realized desires are boring.
we get what we want
and we break it.
every mirror shatters in the end
and we all die a solipsist,
wanting and narcissistic.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 10:02 PM UTC
I sat on Facebook in the forest,
birds tweet and retweet.
I check my email again,
birds tweet and retweet.
there's an empty to-go cup
lying in the ditch next to the trail
DOI CHANG emblazoned across
its tubular length, ethically traded
subtitled below.
I whip out my camera, the world around me
solipsist phantasmagoria; the shutter closes
and I don't believe I exist until I see the
photo
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
The words are cement that stick to my tongue and the roof of my mouth
Molasses is the apathy that oozes from every pore of my beaten body[1]
I watched a man enter the bus, the same time, everyday, his wife waited
Today she was not there
His ring too, was gone[2]
I grow tired of writing, as I grew tired of speaking years previous
Semantic satiation of my everyday life
and I lost the will to live
There is no form, or rhythm
A shame considering the beauty of language[3]
She sits and stares through the wan window and wonders[4]
I avoid eye contact, physical contact
I refuse to acknowledge your existence
Solipsist asshole[5]
What does it feel like to **** a man?
It hurts.[6]
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Body
What are you? Are you mine? Or that visual image of one solipsist?
I often wonder of that ****** sense. I shall believe for now -
But
One and their life experience shall determine my opinion on this most gentle subject.
I do not mean to offend. You see, I do not mean to offend. But I have to.
Word.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
i find it scary that i found proving god
was easier than proving
someone to share a life with -
that i found a deity's imperfections
more justifiable than the imperfections
of mortal beings....
i really appear as a cold-heartless
selfish swine / solipsist -
yes,
that's how it is...
i found it easier to prove
god with everyone jumping the bandwagon
of circus acrobats and hospital surgeons,
and disk jockeys never playing in extremo
or die krupps -
because it was easier to argue the non-existence
of such a being, with colonially ardent dismissals,
because like Lethal Weapon II and the apartheid
master race choke-joke... sing me a king crimson song
you **** oh right,
no Pirates of the Caribbean then,
fair enough.
but we're
all up for cheese, when reconnaissance
just means: otherwise Renaissance.
bridal chambers
lefty, and if it was a hoarded arrangement...
then the curry house did
tailor the bridal dress, to avert ivory white
and instead lace the cotton with white boys'
turmeric coloured dentures worthy of
that bridal pattern that would sooner bed
a widow than a ****** if as suggested,
then i'm your man;
or the random **** and jalfrezi of the alcoholic's
twitchy hand...
oh sure,
alcoholism is a bit like exploring the Amazonian
**** / acid-forest, 'cos' we all care about the globalisation
of our private parts having established the whereabouts
of our petted dogs in the publishing industry
as: well, doing quiet well; never thought
that a woof would be so hard to find as an echo...
apparently a woof was hard to find, which is why
dogs recieved publishing contracts. also:
funny how i'm half ashamed and
half of anything that comes when providing a compilation
of shame cut in half with something engaging
some sort of arousal
to make an arsenal out of and later simply shoot
blanks.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
You're ugly from an angle
You don't reflect enough
Your choices are so loud
Yet they still lack any sound
I'm not so Ptolemaic
You're not a Galilean
I'm not at all judgmental
I am honest. Maybe humble
You're weak below the knees
You're smug and overweight
You don't respect advice based on the mouth from which it came
I'm walking alongside you
I choose to be so close
It might be most absurd but know I love you more than most
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 11:14 AM UTC
Orion
Part II
Beyond my view of comprehension;
The questions of mine,
The eye of the jigsaw.
Above the stars of three demensions;
The blade of a saw,
Man surrounded by awe.
Magical wires
They move as they think.
The People of Grand
May scatter like lead and ink.
The Monsters of Earth
Run away, I won't seek.
For I have not seen the stars of Orion.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
i'm not sure if the walls are crumbling
or if the foundation is rising.
the last perfect metaphor was about my being a master solipsist
but as the wind gathers
i'm carried away
too easily.
and so are you
but it's unmentioned who puts up a bigger fight.
i've given up the struggle.
i've found a perfect place to hide
where the algorithms finally make sense.
and my lack of being wanted
finally cancels out my wanting to spend.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
The perspective that paints things in a positive light
is the one that most often escapes me,
though I chase it through chasms and tunnels and towers and trees.
I swing through a perceived collective consciousness in a desperate attempt to grasp what's most relevant; missing nearly every branch.
Trying to convince myself that I'm not a solipsist.
If you were me, then I'd be you, and I'd choose to do the same things that I'm doing now, which I guess isn't all too surprising.
All things considered.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
in mid-augusts breadth
the last gasps of doomed stars
like lions lacking breath
he is watching
as history repeats itself;
damns itself
the solipsist; the progeny
who cries under his mother's wing
the exodist
to exist
unfortunately, in shortage of sleep
where asphodels crouch
long cut from life's thicket
free from time's gouge
painless, from the thick of it
cast into tartaros
on the cape of ouranos
to fall from his ipseity
so long was serendipity
his father's testament;
the panegyric on death
his debt, his deficit
of what he is bereft
summer feet cross the border
to touch the winter sleet in its corner
and skin meets skin
the solipsist's gravest sin;
the sophist, where he sits,
sips on the blood of collision
more sure of "self"
than his mothers hands
the solipsist, to exist
in the shade of earth,
who inhibits
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
I keep wanting to describe a sound
its this big and this wide and it
makes me go oh drawn out
does this convey that to you
Look my way, yes that's right
how did you know to look here
you think you can't see me
its as if your eyes are knives
When were you here before
was i here too did we talk
i can never remember almost
I can hear you whisper to come
solipsist popsicle in time
cool as james bond stirred
not shaken by this revelation
oh do turn that volume down
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 12:50 AM UTC