Alone in my room
thinking of life, as usual
how one can get so caught up in the cycle
in the system, in this box self-imposed by society
A pretentious philosopher
that I am
with much to say but not much to say, if that makes sense
it makes perfect sense
As a wise man said a long time ago
“cows love grass,” therefore, I must be a cow
such is the logic of life
then die in sleep
only to wake up
to eat, breathe, work
then die in sleep
only to– I’ve made my point
the waiting for Godot commences
as I try to take off my boots
which cling on to my feet,
unwilling to let go,
just like foolish young lovers these days
fall in love with love
fall in and out
like children deprived of a game;
only fools play
when they know not of what is
but of what is not,
of what matters,
but of what does not
But pay no heed to my ramblings
go on with life
like evolved pre-biotic soup should
of chains and walls
who paint their front yards with
upon layers of bright and dark colors
that the rains
will wash away over
And so I stand naked,
metaphorically, if you please,
under the tree
in my room,
calmly drinking sugared tea
being a pretentious philosopher,
thinking of life
while we drift, seemingly alone,
on our separate clouds of ecstasy,
we hide from
within the depths of our own humanity.
or so we deem,
the souls of those that lay before us.
Oblivious, are we?
So into oblivion we shall fade.
we believe in our own ignorance,
proudly, stubbornly so.
Faith and goodness,
and all we hold on to,
till through the fires they go.
And if they remain
amidst the ashes of deep cold scars,
so shall they rise from their heap
and forever be
with the immortal dust of stars.
whether it stands tall and proud
or hides silently
behind the dark foreboding of clouds
So we search it,
twist it, paint it, stretch it,
for all it cares
but we shall only see what we want to see
mourns in the corner,
at the loss of our sanity.
I want to quiet my soul for a while,
hush my vain opinions
empty out my being of false pretenses
of worldly garbage
and sift through the piles of philosophical flutzpahs
that have saturated my mind
with vagueness and
with subtle lies that conclude
that the subjective triumphs over the absolute
blurring the lines
between mere perspective
and plain old truth.
No, that’s not the word.
my thoughts floating around in space
looking for a solid place
to stand upon.
Life is meaningless, they say
and so it is
a redundant cycle
a variation of yesterdays
where shall I grasp hold again
of what’s real?
the moist from the windows of my soul
tear out the pages
of long introduction and predictable denouement
and become nothing
but a blank page
an empty bucket
waiting to be filled with the pebbles
of true wisdom,
whatever that may be.