"subjectively" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition
In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next
Dreams manifested to the forefront
of a visionary gone inside himself
Throwing myself against the walls of my mind
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers
A fourth wall broken
Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
And there's beauty braided through today
Can't deal, never been too good with feels
Last night I had dreams of earthquakes
It was raining, the planet went up in smoke like a cupcake
I was rollerblading, then I was skating
I was alone but I was free
I felt that contradictory cord that bonds you with me
Chaos all around me, life was so pretty
It showed me so much of me and how scared you are to be free
Then it displayed how that's a terrifying reflection of me
Is this simply nonfiction within what I subjectively see?
~ BREATHE ~
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
Eyes wide
you do not allow
oblivious sleep
shadows branded
on my retina
reveal all contrast
tattooed on my shoulder
a skeletal hand
*this illusion
pins me down*
your questions
have no answers
questions remain
asked again and again
*I swear
I know nothing*
You say everything
*is immaterial
subjectively real
ideas existent
in the mind
of the perceiver
I am*
(you insist)
a true believer
Parched and shrinking
I ask for mercy
you bring the cup
to my fissured lips
but it is empty
a vessel of air
you murmur
*there is only enough
for one
what will you give
in return?*
Heavy metal
arpeggios of wind
head bang
petulant faces
inured to rain
a repeating refrain
in falsehood
lies your truth
but even you
cannot halt the dawn
a dark horizon
pulls the strings
powerless
you sink
behind the cloud-
wall of your storm
is it safe now to close my eyes?
three times whisper
*be gone
bright fiend*
a weary incantation
spell of protection
the yawning wind
done with howling
hums reassuringly
*“a change is gonna come
imagine
peace in our time”*
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
there are no
treasures for the timid.
nothing accomplished
by trepidation.
no such thing as
logical caution either.
pragmatism is a pompous *******
fear is always fear,
subjectively irrational
and
subject to scrutiny.
more often than not
to fail holds more glory
than to fear.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:30 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Looking subjectively at others
can sometimes be the best way
to objectively look at yourself.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I. Apply foundation in a tone more perfect than the one you're born with,
doubt that there's anything beautiful in the term "natural"
blot your lips with the cherries you deprive yourself of
and wonder, "What good is difference when it's not appreciated?"
stop reading this.
II. Forget how you were born;
every freckle,
every beauty mark,
every uneven line etched into your face are nothing to be celebrated.
Deprecate yourself, you are unwound and beg this world to shape you in its eyes.
skip this line.
Society speaks subjectively of happiness, but fill your head with lies
that we're all pretty if we can keep up our disguise.
The weight of this world upon your shoulders,
alludes to being big as too much to handle.
Curl into everyone's palm as if you're so fragile,
they have to pinch the skin on your bones with the thumb and index finger.
stop.
III. Draw on the perfectly plump pout, filled with nothing but
expectations of everyone else.
Your beauty is not a privilege for anyone,
but judgment that has defined your worth.
skip.
Emprises that market upon your insecurities,
admire that solemn face in the mirror
as the reflection discourages you
at the acknowledgement of any impurities
Start.
How To Be Beautiful Lifelong
Admire the history that lives within the heartlines of your palms,
how strong you've grown, once cradled in your mother's arms.
Disregard where it is you've come from, but how much further you've journeyed forward.
I. Apply the sincerity in your best friend's voice when
she calls the time you've spent together, beautiful.
Do not doubt the splendor that comes from wisdom.
II. Every wrinkle you've earned,
as time gives back to you from lessons learned.
Blot your lips during the release of laughter
as saliva mists through the air,
your joy so vigorous
the ghosts residing in the graves
regret no more.
You are as you should be,
a composite of everything that gives you life
and grants you purpose.
Begging for this world to love you,
there is no fault in this desire.
They speak of happiness as if
it's only a potential-oriented concept,
Do not let your heart surround the gossip
or it's golden armor become bronzed.
III. Draw on the canvas of existence
in the brightest of hues, in the purest of love.
Filled with nothing, but expecations for yourself
say farewell to the darkness
open the curtains to light.
Your beauty is magnificent
as your name will be transcendent.
In each day we decide to be ourselves,
the poise presents itself.
—V.H.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
I saw infinity
In a glass of water
I felt it strange
As it passed
It was a difference
Like night and day
The loss of the feeling
That i am alone
The realization
That i am Connected to all of you
That life is a dream
And death an illusion
All of this hate
And all the confusion
Are the movements of energy
Through our mortal coil
Yet without the body
There would be a unity
We would be everything
And nothing
This is why life exists
To experience ourselves subjectively
Most of us not knowing
That we are drops from the same ocean
With every kindness And crime we commit
We further our understanding
Still with life comes conflict
And another chance to change
We live our lives like falling rain
Only to pass back to the ocean again
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Success is a mere construct that is subjectively incompatible with professed spirituality.
Butter may spread with ease on a slice of bread, and it may not.
There is something appealing about the grains of sand which lodge in obscure places.
The texture of nature is truly fraught with the bliss and tragedy of North African mysticism.
Geology may be ancient, but so are the sensual indulgences of Cleopatra.
The construction of wonders remains to be perplexing; and I haven’t cleansed myself in milk.
Cairo is the epitome of occult curiosity where Anubis reigns in contemporary economics.
The All Seeing Eye promises safety at the cost of homage.
Identify yourself. If freedom doesn’t exist,
then why does the abode of the dead eagerly impose determinations?
Fly the flag. God bless America.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
these days without a dad are strange
in ways I wish I cared more about
things are suddenly easy to let go of
when you are tired and
you finally loosen your grip,
an ode to visceral reactions
things are simple to never need back
if nothing seems real
in the first place
it's never even that deep
just that picturing a future
seems more like
getting hopes up
there is an important distinction
to be separate from "looking forward to something"
life grows disheartened when these two are confused
used too closely to tell
is this realism? or a ****** distraction
from the fact that
I wouldn't mind dying
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
You blame not
when I am not with you.
You welcome
when I come back to you.
You nourish
when I am open to you.
You flourish
when I am your conduit.
There is no mention
of the time we're separate.
There is no pressure
to be a certain way.
There is no guilt
in being distracted by life.
There is no shame
in being wrong about things,
even yourself.
You are compassionate.
Though,
When I chase, you elude-
(because you are already there in me.)
When I stay, you egg me on
(because you are pure energy.)
When I capture, you escape
(because you are ethereal)
When I accommodate, you amaze
(because you are all-creative)
When I name, you become anomalous
(because you defy labels)
When I control, you boycott
(because to control is to disrespect).
When I let go, you comply
(because by letting go, you let it stay).
You are nothing as you are everything;
the things we perceive are your reflections.
Though you are no singular thing,
that is what allows you to be everything.
You are each person,
but very few people are you.
You are infinite wisdom,
thus can no one define you.
You are a pattern, a fractal of Philosophy
that can be reflected and lived
but not that can be told or taught (other than perhaps by example);
for it is subjectively based on One's existence and mindset.
Based upon One's path:
***It is simultaneously the greatest gift and curse
for One to have One's own path:***
No one can dictate for anyone else their path
because no one has the path of anyone else,
nor can they know of the path of another.
It's neigh impossible for one to know one's own path;
you must always be seeking to discover it; to let it unfold.
One can and must learn to be more sensitive to One's own path;
That itself takes great mental cultivation,
which in turn takes a willingness for One to learn things about Oneself that One might not like,
not to mention Practice, Self-Discipline, and Patience.
None of which can anyone do for You
but You.
::
It is up to you and you alone how worthwhile your life ends up being;
physical reality is a holographic maximum-security prison for your Chi
but the holographic prison is merciful by the grace of it being holographic.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Don't "take" action...it doesn't belong to you.
Don't "take" action..."make" it instead.
Radioactive Reaction...I, Radio Re-Active
We make, Radioaction.
Iconoclashing against a faction Hell bent on Heaven sentiment.
Fictional filament tethered to the Town Hall Square Circular non-secular content.
Stitching Supra-stitious suspicion.
Weaving away, in the name of good faith.
Imperial pillows to suffocate un-resting heads
blankets of banners-it's story time to go to bed.
Yet here i sit...reaction-ing in script.
Creating activity...through creativity.
Cre-activity.
Recreational reaction.
Revolutionary open-caption inking passion with a digital pen.
"Make me"...such a passive statement with such a threatening proposal...a posing promise...a convenient conviction to tend.
A submissive request to influence choice over chance.
Change over circumstance...situational aggressive targets
subjectively objectifying a marketable stance.
"Make" action...don't just take it
Only then will it be yours to keep.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 9:08 AM UTC
Objectively i step out,
dissecting, inspecting, introspecting,
analysing what is to become of me.
You interpret my words and call it psychology
My main problem is communication,
Inherited from my mother ,
Though i earned a masters in the latter,
My perverseness came from my father
But who could ever blame the parents ?
Since reality is merely a fragment
associated to humans, and i accept that.
Subjectively i dig in , search , meditate and contemplate
i conclude the path is still long ahead however my herritage assures me that i am already there
If Jazz could be committed to ink and paper
assorted with therapy
the results would be similar to my humble poetry
Words Of Harfouchism
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
Words,
they have some arcane power, the
ability of adjectives to steer our mind subjectively.
The presence of nouns, now, they'll denote something of note,
could be a cookie, a concept, a cart, a coat. Of course
there's pronouns abound to substitute these nouns,
from her to him, and from me to you;
it's pronouns that make a sentence feel new. Now
we musn't forget the versatile verb, the essence of to do,
verbing verb is quite absurd though possible, it's true. But how to
enhance the explanation of an action, for example if I'm acting,
who's to say it's great or lacking,
well that's an adverbs job to do.
And...
We can't forget the connective.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
*We are all connected consciously.
Experiencing one another subjectively.
We are all one universally.
Look closer and soon you'll see,
that all matter is condensed energy.
Can you feel it pulse from me?
Beating in and out rhythmically.
Renewing itself repeatedly.
All things have a frequency.
Each wave, different like you and me.
Harmonizing in a similar key.
Drifting out into eternity.
There is so much that you can’t see.
The building blocks of reality.
Destroying and creating endlessly.
Infinite possibility.*
Existence *cycles continuously.
Matter shifts from you to me.
Choosing where to go unbiasedly.
Tempestuous, chaotic entropy.
All things are connected musically.
A never-ending melody.
It has been and will always be.
Vibrations existing in harmony.*
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Holding hands with my shadow
the source becomes apparent
as subtle nuances conglomerate,
the boundaries between them dissolve
my awareness begins to loosen
its grip on self-inflicted illusions
making room for
-- This Very Moment --
the culmination of pulsating particles
subjectively self-willed . . .
The difficulty becomes
A source of ease as
perspectives adjust
the dust settles
& the inherent perfection
of each idiosyncrasy
dulls the duality of
my self-conception
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
I first saw you walking down the street
I don’t know when you first saw me
maybe at home
in the mirror of your memory
maybe in the pages of the book
you were reading outside in the winter
at that cafe
You had me all smiles
and I had you
all similes
a pretty little thing
to stroke my pretty little thing against
You in your fashionista bombshell outfit
me in my childlike excitement
as I walked on past
and I wonder
if later that night
you were in your bedroom
which is just as messy as mine
I wonder if you thought to yourself
“well hot **** that was one hot ****** guy”
if not that’s fine
my words are subjectively an object of your subject
Does that make sense?
I seem to do that a lot
rambling over myself and over myself
as if you caught me in a lie
I hadn’t yet told
I hold on to the belief
that You caught me in the corner of your eye
and decided to save me for later
It’s the only thing us passing strangers
have really got
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
I do not love you
It's true
I do not love you
The curve of your hips
And the lay of your *******
The way that you kiss
How you look while you rest
Whatever it is
I can surely attest
That while you are nice
You are not the best
For me
Subjectively
I do not love you
And I am sorry
I am sorry
Because you deserve to be loved
You are kind
And you deserve kindness
You are beautiful
But not to me
Not in the way that sets my heart afire
You are beautiful
In a way that does not set my soul to dancing
You are beautiful
In a way a painting can be
And yet not capture the soul
I do not love you
And
I am sorry
Because
You are beautiful and you deserve to be loved
But
I do not love you
You are beautiful on the inside
You have an intelligent mind
Mysterious and sublime
I like your mind
But
I do not love you
Not as you deserve
I cannot make you truly happy
Because
I do not love you
And
I am sorry
But
I do not love you
Please forgive me for not loving you
Note: the subjects of this poem and the previously published poem are not the same, they are different romantic interests
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
I'm not in the hospital, hit by a car
I know I'm not online as much; I'm not far
from finally finishing out my degree!
Ten days til a Bachelor of PSYCHOLOGY!
Though yes, sad to say, the mishap from last night
Proved unsalvageable what took me all day to write.
But after the panic subsided, in spite
Of the loss I decided to invite
a CAN-DO mantra, that today still recite:
*"Citing every source
providing claims; unless, of course,
the statements you express
are YOURS. Original. Then, yes."*
Would be no need to cite,
but I digress; I still endorse
vehemently: just reinforce
Pre-existing bodies,
empiric and peer-reviewed,
Must become one with your own body,
long before you can conclude
Much of anything; that, at best,
Could be considered misconstrued.
Which I reckon may elicit a subjectively quite rude
Swing at a pitch from your perspective you thought beckoned attitude
So rather than succumbing, and becoming quite contrite,
Just cite every sentence as though you know of no greater delight
AAAAAND
For the friends and acquaintances from on-the-line:
Out among ye mulls around an enemy of thine.
And by proxy, or vis-a-vis? Uh, nemesis of mine?
Either way, it's a PHONEY! I promise I'm fine!
I wasn't mowed down while crossing a street
By a drunk driver; don't buy into this deceit!
When the hell have you known of me to be on the loose,
And outdoors by a street, with no **** good excuse!
Nah, brah; didn't get rek't, not in the ICU,
Anything 80_hospital says isn't true.
It's hard to imagine why someone would do
Such a thing, and hard to try and imagine who...
Nevertheless: til the mocking bird is absconding
Believe none are who they claim if they're responding
With something extreme, but failing to show face
And put shoe on head or something else, just in case
That for reasons beyond rational ways of thought,
Someone's chosen to wreak havoc on the distraught
At least until that jacka$$ sh!# f#@%er gets caught,
Just, my two cents? If they say "no I swear," they're not.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Was an aperitif to an aphorism,
An architect of aphrodisia,
An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought.
She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos
Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar,
Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels.
She was a cryptic gallipot
Shelved in an apothecary
At the Caelian's base.
Her shape was incense wisps, her touch
A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze
Eros himself.
Alliteration ran thick through the blood.
The paintings? Like Debussy composed.
Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed
Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot...
The admiration, the visions that adorn her:
Subjectively supernatural—
Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy—
No air of denigration.
She was intricate, but altogether simple.
I encountered her in stifled confessions.
It was not the beauty of her face, the body
That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting
In my hand as it cupped in hers—
It was her autotelism and her hope.
And now her imaginings hang,
Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left;
Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
We are such fragile things,
vulnerability exposed over single words,
voices, relentless pounding, mocking, senseless motives,
curling up on the floor, beating at the darkness with clenched fists,
subjectively futile as we grasp at the sunrise of another new day.
© H V Swan
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
There's a whole lot to be said
of 4 a.m.
and the men it's tortured.
Same goes for clocks two
and all those dead
amongst the barns red,
Recently painted,
in fact still wet,
Violently the say
was the spray
of artistic revolution,
But the shoe never fit
this little slit
we narcissistically created.
So we Jew
them out of heaven
subjectively created.
Jaded fire stares at...
skin
like a white wall
Too begin
-
The fall
Stated hatred
is hypocrisies
living breath.
Inflated by
dated school of thought
uneducated, wrought with..
Complicated.
Or Basic.
We're......
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC