poem

I am an APPLE

I am an apple. What are you?

Lyrics for the poem:

Stoicism,

I am an apple,

I am an apple with a stem,

A crease,

All apples are the same,

We are the same apple,

Like cloned apples,

In a world of mirrors.

 

Transcendentalism,

I am an apple,

I am an apple with a stem,

A crease,

My apple floats,

Slightly above the ground,

I feel high,

Everything I feel, think and hear,

Will lift me higher,

Until God,

I am near.

 

Dualism,

I am two apples,

My apples both have a stem,

A crease,

My apples look the same,

But they are not on an equal plane,

With competing realities,

They will remain philosophical,

Within my deepest fantasies.

 

Humanism,

I am an apple,

I am an apple with a stem,

With a crease,

With eyes, heart,

And many organs,

I am alive!

 

Reductionism,

I am an apple,

I have no stem,

I have no crease,

I am a round red ball,

Am I an apple?

Am I a jawbreaker?

Am I a bouncy ball?

Am I a human?

 

Relativism,

We are all apples,

We have stems,

We have creases,

Our stems and creases and shapes,

Are shaped by our experiences,

With the world,

With knowledge.

 

Absurdism,

I am a banana.

 

Theism,

I am an apple,

I have  a stem,

A crease,

And a halo.

I am holy,

Guided by God,

My life will never cease.

 

Empiricism,

I am an apple,

I have a stem,

A crease,

A shape,

But I have no color.

All the curves of my shape,

Are mathematically made,

There is an event,

An experience,

Attached,

To each shape of the curve,

To each length,

Of my height,

Of my body,

Of my stem,

What I smell,

Touch,

Taste,

Feel,

And see,

Is the formula,

For you and me.

 

Hedonism,

I am an apple,

I have a stem,

A crease,

And someone has eaten me,

They took deep gluttonous bites,

From around all sides,

I hope all those bites were pleasurable,

I gained great fancy,

From the feel of the teeth,

The lips,

It was like a hungry kiss,

Now I miss your lips,

But there is not much left to offer,

Your never ending hunger.

 

Constructivism,

I am an apple,

I have a stem,

I have no crease,

I have been sliced apart,

But wasn’t it nice,

To still be placed carefully,

To still almost look like an apple,

But I enjoyed being created,

I was an active part of my creation,

Not just some kind of passive,

Machination,

Some apathetic factory production,

I am a unique apple.

 

Holism,

We are 3 apples,

We have stems,

We have creases,

Our stems are still attached,

To our twigs,

To our branches,

To our tree,

We still love our daily radiation,

Our photosynthetic nutrition,

Brings about much satisfaction,

For our growth,

And daily interaction.

 

Modernism,

I am an apple,

I have an artificial stem,

Someone has taken a bite,

Perfectly placed,

For the highest chance for sales,

For the perfect advertisement,

To avoid societies,

Rebuke or perhaps chastisement,

I am worried more about money,

Than I value my own life,

Give me some coins,

Dollar bills,

My appetite,

Will never be filled.

 

Existentialism,

I am an apple,

I have a stem,

A crease,

My freedom,

Will always be,

The most unique thing in this world,

I am surrounded by nothing important,

Just a gray cloud,

Of perhaps apples,

Perhaps nothing,

They do not affect my will,

My life,

Because I am an authentic apple,

I am free,

I am unique,

And I am true,

To my true self.

 

Utilitarianism,

I am an apple pie,

In fact,

Am I an apple pie?

I could be any pie,

But I have no stem,

No crease,

I have a hot streak of smoke,

Dwindling in the air,

My past of being an apple,

Is not even a care,

I am an apple pie,

Would you like to have a bite,

Would you like to have a try?

 

Nihilism,

Sweet Death

Sweet Death

I am the darkness that seeps into your light,

I am the torment that twirls, whirls and chokes,

Anything in its sight.


The sun scowls down at me,

The sky trembles,

The sky hides,

Behind its clouds of fear.


I stop,

Stand,

Stare.

I take a good look,

At this pathetic world.


Dopey peasants pattering around,

Peddling insignificance,

Exchanging naught and zilch.


They will gasp soon,

They will promise anything,

They will grasp at what lies around them.


What is radiating in their emptiosphere?

Upstairs?

In their bottomless pits of wonder?


Don’t they see?

What great feelings I bring?

The sweet feeling,

Of no feeling.

Warmth comes,

The greatest warmth they have ever felt,

The longest sleep they will ever get,

The blackest dreams they have ever sought.


Ahhhh,

They cannot forsake,

This pathetic world.


Ahhhh,

If they only knew death,

They would embrace it.


Ahhhh,

Sweet warmth,

Sweet zilch,

Sweet calm,

Sweet death.


There is no phone ringing,

There is no adolescent singing,

There are no appointments,

There are no more disappointments.

They don’t exist,

You don’t exist,


You will feel,

As if,

you never existed,

At all.


A starving sea gull

Poem text:

Do you ever sit and think,

about a seagull circling an oilrig?

 

The seafaring bird flies closely to the tip top of the waves,

its small black eyes scouring and scanning,

for any sign of movement,

for any sign of life,

for a single piece of floating and edible trash.

 

The Gull’s giant white and grey wings flap,

they slap and slide through the wind,

the gull’s starving stomach growls and calls out to it,

as piercing as its beak’s call might be to a human.

 

The seagull’s heart skips a beat

its stomach starts to warm,

as a familiar figure walks and skips up and down a beach.

The other day the same figure cast a fishing line from a boat,

several days former a chorus of noises and movements

had caused a similar emotion from a ship.

 

The sea bird hovers ever closer now,

for nature’s lesson,

has never been taught this easily before.

The sea bird’s piercing call comes,

it is met by a stray fry,

a chunk of an unfinished cheese burger,

half a slice of an onion,

slightly gnawed on,

many more delicacies on their way to quiet its stomach.

 

The seagull knows not what it does,

the humans know not what they do,

the seagull’s stomach is quieted,

the human’s spirits are uplifted,

both of their hearts are warmed.

The seagull cannot find any fish,

the humans have caught most of the fish,

the seagull has found a human,

and humans never seem to run out of French fries.