The Philosopher

 

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
a fool
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
to eat,
breathe,
work,
then die in sleep
only to wake up
to eat, breathe, work
then die in sleep
only to– I’ve made my point
And so
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
who
fall in love with love
or
fall in and out
of love
like children deprived of a game;
a game
only fools play
when they know not of what is
but of what is not,
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
wise creatures
of chains and walls
who paint their front yards with
layers
upon layers of bright and dark colors
that the rains
will wash away over
time
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
as usual.

 

 

Truth Is

 

Truth is,

while we drift, seemingly alone,

on our separate clouds of ecstasy,

we hide from

what lies

within the depths of our own humanity.

Voiceless,

or so we deem,

the souls of those that lay before us.

Oblivious, are we?

So into oblivion we shall fade.

 

Truth is,

we believe in our own ignorance,

proudly, stubbornly so.

Faith and goodness,

and all we hold on to,

futile

till through the fires they go.

And if they remain

shimmering, glimmering

amidst the ashes of deep cold scars,

so shall they rise from their heap

and forever be

with the immortal dust of stars.

 

Truth is?

Truth is,

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

while truth

mourns in the corner,

laughing

at the loss of our sanity.

 

 

Nothing

I want to quiet my soul for a while,

hush my vain opinions

self-righteous thoughts,

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

nonsense,

with subtle lies that conclude

that the subjective triumphs over the absolute

blurring the lines

between mere perspective

and plain old truth.

 

Confused?

No, that’s not the word.

Lost maybe

my thoughts floating around in space

looking for a solid place

to stand upon.

 

Life is meaningless, they say

and so it is

futile

a redundant cycle

a variation of yesterdays

where shall I grasp hold again

of what’s real?

wipe away

the moist from the windows of my soul

tear out the pages

of long introduction and predictable denouement

and become nothing

nobody

but a blank page

an empty bucket

waiting to be filled with the pebbles

of true wisdom,

whatever that may be.

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