The Existentialist in a Modern World

The Existentialist in a Modern World

This is the original version of People Perception. I didn’t like it as much at first, and thought I needed to edit and add more, hence People Perception.

However, when I re-visited the first draft with some time in between conception and reflection, I decided it was worth sharing. Obviously it’s very similar, but I think different enough to warrant posting independent of the updated version.

Vitriolic self-criticism,
an emaciated, righteous euphemism,
thanks for your contribution,
we’ll listen, but move on anyway.

Hate yourself, cut yourself,
remove the layers you find,
make sure you aren’t heard,
make sure there isn’t something, others might mind.

Repulsive, or repugnant,
some other, ghastly insolvent,
an adjective, adjacent,
to an already poisoned agent.

What they see is what they get,
or what they want to believe they get,
the outer shell, ostensibly similar,
to the purportedly, impertinent interior.

Vitriolic self-satisfaction,
a singular interaction,
to understand that you need to imitate,
others of higher state.

Wait to be told,
how to walk, and how to hold,
yourself, and your mind,
understand everything, all the time.

And if you don’t, don’t worry,
all the pain will scurry,
the feelings melt away,
when you do.

For last is not least,
however, it is measured in such feet,
it sits in the eyes,
of everyone, all the time.

You are alone, don’t amend,
do not feel, or attend,
to the reason you think you are here.

You are present only to fear.

People Perception

People Perception

Vitriolic criticism,
is a euphemistic embolism,
used to outline indignation.

It’s intent is to remedy a situation,
through altering observation,
yet is often met with harsh repudiation.

“Thanks for your contribution,”
They’d say.
“We are listening,”
They’ll say.
But only to indulge,
your obviously blind verbal melee.

“Your mind’s not made up?”
“Well, ours is.
And, frankly,
it holds more water than your piss.”

Somehow the truth not interesting,
pretty things, more captivating,
than reality mired in words,
riddles aren’t actually heard.

Assign a use-by date to curiosity?
Let’s blunten luminosity!
Encompass reality, with a shadow based mentality.
Together, maybe we’ll drown out all the words.

Don’t tweet,
don’t shout,
don’t feel what it’s all about,
your opinion drowned,
please mind the gap—nothing too profound.

Don’t hate yourself: instead cut yourself,
remove the layers you find,
make sure you aren’t heard,
make sure there isn’t something,
others might mind.

Repulsive, or repugnant,
some other, ghastly insolvent,
an adjective, adjacent,
to an already poisoned agent.

What they see is what they get,
or what they want to believe, they get,
the outer shell, ostensibly similar,
to the purportedly, impertinent, interior.

Now self-satisfy,
the universal need to get by,
feed it through imitation,
of others more advanced in station.

Wait to be told,
how to walk, and how to talk,
and how to hold yourself,
 and your mind.
And understand everything, all of the time.
And if you don’t—don’t worry!

But, some people will tell you,
to push pain to the back of your mind.
At least that way,
you will appear fine.

For sometimes others don’t like things,
that deviate from them.
Personal conflict,
confirms heat in once logical corundum.

And we’re told,
that last is not least.
Yet, it is measured in such feet;
sitting behind the eyes,
 of most people—most of the time.

And are you alone?
Do you make amends to these feelings?
Or, try not to think about what it all possibly is meaning?

For distractions are everywhere,
pray we heed them before veering.
And if we don’t; don’t worry.
Find comfort in solitary evenings.

For isolation does not immediately equate to pain,
misery so often assigned to this state’s name.

Others tend to manipulate, and congregate together,
inappropriately satiating, a desire to cause more inclement weather.

And at the risk of sounding hysterical, hypercritical, or blatantly obtuse.
I offer a solution to this predicament of competing wills and moods.

A lesson I can offer, amongst this supposedly erroneous grift:
Is that if you can avoid pernicious whisperings; I would consider that a gift.

Old Town New York

Old Town New York

So it’s been well over a year since my spate of poetry. This is mainly because at the time I was writing for emotional release. My disillusionment with writing as a means of problem solving became apparent in some of my language.

“Simple yet poignant,
elegant, but ointment,
the words make no sense,

I’m fighting for the sake of it,
writing for a stake in it,
a better life…
a better mind?

You decide.”

Don’t get me wrong, the process was great for getting a grip on reality and processing grief, but it wasn’t solving anything practical. So I, in large part, dispensed with rhythmic wordplay in exchange for a more hands on approach to righting the ship.

However, recently a writer friend of mine has suggested a way to keep developing poetry without the need to be so inextricably tied to the material.

She nick-names them joke poems, in that they have no deeper meaning apart from the personae that they embody. However, I believe a cleaner definition would be something akin to “inspiration poetry”. The general idea is that you find a song or image and write about it. She personally likes to give each poem a “personality”.

It’s a bit of fun. This post is about my first one. I used a song and afterward found an image that matched what I was thinking about when writing. That image is the featured image for this post.

A unique aspect of this piece, is that I decided to experiment with something I read about recently. A method that focuses on preserving the first draft.

This concept basically revolves around the idea that over-editing can lead to loss of key information and meaning. Particularly information that is generated during the initial phase of conception. Although the examples used mostly focus on fiction and academic literature; it helped me to put into perspective some interesting thoughts on idea generation and development. I decided to give it a go but in short form; hence the poetry.

I also intentionally didn’t edit anything. Such an extreme example was not recommended by the author, as it was never stressed the editing is useless. I just wanted to try out writing something in a single take.

Here is the inspiration piece:

And here is the poem:

Old New York,
Old cold town,
rusted filings, cover the ground,
silver gateways, encrusted with snow.

Fading archways, with golden glow,
fleeting evanescence that seeps away,
somehow not visible, during the day.

A paler shade, of deeper feel,
a lighter day for wanting to heal,
the music echoes, and the sound carries,
at least I’m here, before I’m married.

And the world,
 keeps sliding on by,
at least I’m around,
 to make use of this sky,
while it’s here, and so am I,
Try not to tarry, try not to cry.

It’s been a while,
walking in the world,
been a while,
 trying not to fall.

And yet I’m here,
somehow alone,
and yet I’m here,
somehow come home.

In old New York city,
the perennial supplier of Stockholm syndrome.

I also realise that the more I write these days, the more that what comes out is in lyric form. That is, that it is less of a traditional poem, and more akin to a musical piece. This being said, I am currently teaching myself how to play the piano and practicing singing. So maybe one day I can adapt them accordingly and they can enjoy a second life on stage.

In the meantime, I hope a couple of people can get something out of this. I enjoyed the experience, and with any luck, I’ll post a few more at a point in the near future. Thanks for your time.

To Let Go

To Let Go

Sun in the sky,
beats down on my brow,
keeps flies from pestering me,
keeps the pain away now,

Warm and content,
sleepy, they do vent,
the feelings,
bleed away, eventually,

Drink by my side,
I think, to let slide,
the thoughts bothering me,
they claw at my mind,

And I’m alone,
not again,
I do atone,
I amend,

For the choices I’ve made,
again and again,
mistakes that were taken,
and turned on their head,

Nothing was pointless,
all done in aid,
of preparation and progress,
of the places I’ve saved,

Places in my mind,
I’ve chosen not to go,
places in time,
I’ve chosen not to grow,

So here I am,
somewhere on the road,
fighting to move on,
and wanting to let go,

I’m a genius,
and an idiot,
the blind man who can’t see it,
the obvious path to go,

Ode to the feeling of woe,
oh, to let these feelings all go.

Life in All It’s Forms

Life in All It’s Forms

I’m the actor in the drain pipe,
the man who tried and fell,
I’m the character who’s chained like,
the madman come from hell,

I’m the goblin holding no one,
just a devil’s cutesy grin,
I’m the cold, scolding arrogance,
flailing from the kill,

I’m the voice in the darkness,
the little wanton crime,
I’m the cold and the carcass,
the predator calling time,

I’m the herbivore,
on the plains,
and the man,
who couldn’t tell,

I’m the racer,
and the loser,
I’m the kid,
who’s in his shell,

I’m life in all its forms,
from close and far away,
try to look closer;
try not to look away.


In Arkansas,
and beneath the willow tree,
there exists a channel,
inside of me,

Behind the waves,
and inside my soul,
a rhythm of sorts,
and it is old,

Smoky effervescence,
and quiet chill,
the thought provokes,
a measured thrill,

My shackled brain,
and abstract mind,
alter experiences,
I think you’ll find,

To form brittle restraints,
  and foregone conclusions,
they cause manic states,
and worried delusions,

Of words and weapons,
the weapons are words,
they tell a story,
I thought you heard,

Of tricky sentences,
and abstract rhymes,
the factions fracture,
inside my mind,

Stringent orders,
  form pointless commands,
they direct my actions,
to do more harm,

And for myself,
this is not the end,
and for myself,
I grow used to it again.

All While Waiting for the Day

In the dead of night,
a warm embrace,
in the cool moonlight,
a stolid retrace,

Of fingernails scraping skin,
and pallid moon grace,
all while waiting for the day.

A garnered collection,
of watered down rejection,
a billet paid,
a fillet laid,

Down on my plate,
and next to the wine,
they nestle neatly,
where fingers entwine,

Embers go flaring,
and winds come tearing,
through the room,
where we now lay,

I’m high as a kite,
and cold as stone,
emptiness and nostalgia,
make me feel all alone,

I’m wrapped in you,
and wrapped in them,
the voices high,
with pity and contempt,

They call to me,
and chide in tone,
they cut through me,
just like a comb,

A lady strong,
and lady fair,
bring me some wine,
and bring me to care,

For a person in this world,
other than me,
a person is this world,
who makes me feel free.