Solipsism Poems | Examples

Nobody is Sane

A warped 
zone
twisted &
unworthy of 
  grasping--
impossible to
  escape.

No reward
No love
No answers.

Frantic fingers
 scrape at the escape hatch
yearning to push the
EJECT button
  (clinging to hope
for transmigration).

A glimpse into
  dying
a flood of
 deadly lies.

No winners 
 here 
or there--
 only
degenerating brains
 in a neo-Roman Empire 
where any-THING goes
& NO-body knows
   anything.

The
grisly grass
crawls out of
the
 Book of the Dumb
as
sighs of
  solipsism
collide with
  sneers of
narcissism
(& dirty rain
vilifies the 
living dead).

The demigods
   ejaculate 
malevolent magma:
   carving a brutal &
obvious fact
into timeless slime…
nobody
 nobody
   NOBODY
   
is 

sane

I could not whisper the story

Tongue touched, 
a diaphanous zephyr of ephemeral desire, 
rustles the parchment of our sepulchral scripture, 
where our connubial covenant is inscribed,
in the cryptographic ledger of the damned, 
and the whispers of the ancients,
echo through the labyrinthine corridors,
of the underworld.

Your lips, 
a vermilion velvet of hyperemic passion,
anoint our union with the haematoid blood of Elysium, 
consecrating our entwined destinies,
within the cryptic cenotaph of the heart, 
where the lethiferous weights of existence,
hang precariously in the balance.

Together, 
we waltz, 
hand in hand, 
through the tenebrous tapestry of Chronos, 
our love an ephemeral eclipse of solipsism. 

In this eternal, 
ephemeral dance, 
we are the cryptic ciphers of the nocturnal, 
our love a funeral pyre that illuminates the desolate, 
luminous landscape of the Chthonic River of Styx.

The Pepperman Thought 03222022

I OPENED A DOOR
IN THE UNIVERSE ,
THAT DOESN'T EXIST ,
AND NEVER EXISTED.
I FOUND MYSELF STANDING ,
IN THE OCTAGON ,
OF THE IMAGINATION.

UNDERSTANDING THAT
IMAGINATION IS ESSENTIAL ,
TO UNLEASHING OUR TRUE
POTENTIAL , I UNLEASHED
MY CURIOSITY OF IMAGINATION
IN EVERY DIRECTION.
IN SEARCH OF WISDOM
AND KNOWLEDGE.
UNDERSTANDING
I AM NOT THE FATHER
OF SOLIPSISM.
I AM NOT THE CENTER
OF THE UNIVERSE NOR AM I
THE CREATOR.

IF THE ABILITY TO THINK
IS A MENTAL ABILITY ,
THE INABILITY TO THINK
BECOMES A MENTAL DISABILITY.

IF IMAGINATION IS THE SIMPLEST
FORM OF THINKING ,
THE INABILITY TO IMAGINE
MAKING A DECISION
WITHOUT THINKING FIRST ,
IS NO DIFFERENT 
THAN THE INABILITY TO THINK.

CONFORMITY IS NOT
THINKING FOR YOURSELF.
IT'S ALLOWING OTHERS
TO THINK FOR YOU.
AS IF YOU DO NOT HAVE
THE ABILITY TO THINK
FOR YOURSELF.

SO THE REAL DIFFERENCE 
BETWEEN THE SO CALLED
HAVES AND THE HAVE NOTS ,
GOES BEYOND THE 
BARRICADES OF IMAGINATION 
WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT.

BEWARE THE IMAGINATION
DISGUISED AS FANTASY
LIVING A LIFE OF VISUALIZATION
IN A REALITY THAT DOES NOT
EXIST.

Michael E. Harris
03222022

Solipsism

Solipsism
Appears as
An expansive
Thought of "me"
The separate me..
Saying:
Me is all
Is everything..
Some spiritual paths
Seem to find this
Solipsism trap...

Heck I Don'T Know

i.....

don't know.....
man oh man.....

why does it ake.....
friggin crappolla now a mistake.....
nuthin aches it all just takes.....

nuthin so that means talk about whatever!?.....
anything from something to nothing and that is.....
all that's left on the how to do page.....
so now it's time to creatively shut down the memory.....

andt....
fly by.....
instinct of words.....
sounds and spellings played.....
to think and feel a.....
music called poetry of times being.....
something that is legibly of conscious perceptions....
that is not solipsism but a deeper view.....
in which a being of self constants means relativity.....
shapes the world not solipsistic composers not learning by ear......


stan sand (piled    : )

Dear Inconnu

Dear inconnu

                  If I must be enthralled by something 
                                     I saw it to be you
                             I'm enmeshed in the prism
                                your song of solipsism
                                   I need your protein
                                      I want your feist
                                 I crave your grand cru
                                        what shall I do
                                      It's stress I guess
                                      supernatural king
                                 with your burning ring
                                    your canvas occurs
                                  in my nightly pictures
                                a rock replaced my soul
                                 which you now control
                                 I gawk into your pupils
                                 and it captured my will
                      I lay in the perfume of your memory
                        dear Inconnu, where is your key?

Sans Scribbling Scrolling, Scrounging Scrunching, Scrying Scribe Section Seventy

Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps. 

Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.

Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.

Notitle:0007

Down in my depths the old adage is true,
the more to life I've come to see
the less answers have pertained to me.

The world as will, and interpretation.
Though Marx spelled truth through change. 
Truth contained in the roots of 'self' dry 
in the public eye. Solipsism is such a form
that it will rise and crumble in this heat.
Digging into cracked pathways
for shadow and dirt. 
Interpreting these stones progresses with 
disdain for those who walk along them.

Thus the positive project denies itself affirmation;
a furtive pygmy kernel—
the totem of a days work.

Knowledge

Does it ever scare you that what you know is all you know?
there's always something to be learned, knowledge has no plateau,
rather than love, money, or fame, give me truth, henry david thoreau,
i'll never know everything, but i'm going to try even so,
how would you feel if everything you've been taught was incorrect?
does object create subject, or subject create object?
let me give you some time for that to sink in and reflect,
alright, times up, lets inspect,
language, numbers, and symbols were all created by someone like you and me, 
they are all simply tools to help us discern reality,
but as soon as you label something it creates a dichotomy,
because true essence transcends any vocabulary,
all that's for certain are natural laws like gravity,
you better get used to the thinner air of uncertainty, 
welcome to the high country of the mind,
where absolute truth is next to impossible to find,
if none of this makes sense, read about solipsism,
yourself is all you'll ever know, man, this mind is a prison

Must I Call You Again

MUST   I  CALL YOU.....AGAIN?

Must I call you again, onlooker at my hurt,
Talking by the window, an inscape of wrecked
Solitude,  impugned bad manners, and the curt
Commerce of refusal.  Your blameless, decked

Hand of fate.  Capitulation, a trade or pain
Of being alone.  What mannered smile can lift
My woebegone future for the pull of rain
Making the shards of bright light shift

Away from wonderment, green-begetting magic?
An empowerment of the seeing eye inwards,
Making whole my patchwork, your solipsism so tragic,
In a smitten whorl of entire fate dragged skin-wards,

Renting with ache this sojourning material,
Glimpsing the light eternal, ethereal.

by Rosemarie Rowley

Published in IN MEMORY OF HER (2008)

Unclimbed Stairways

Unclimbed Stairways
              by Odin Roark

At the base of the stairs
He lay on his back
Upon his chest
He propped his hero

Peering up through GI Joe’s
Stand-your-ground stance
All seemed climbable
Just like in the movies

But he knew
Summit of the stairs
Was the attic
That frigid place
Lures of the forbidden
With air suffocating its captivity
Like his mother warned

Such was the explanation
Penned studiously by the doctor 
Connecting the dots
Of thirty years subsequent

The strategy of solipsism
Where more forbidden climbs
Ensnared him with madness
And a padded enclosure

The doctor thought he had control
But the man/boy knew
In front of him
Just a mother in a cheap suit
Warning
Always warning

Was Van Gogh warned?
Was David Foster Wallace warned?
Is the next Hoffman going to be warned?

Check your stairways
To the bathroom
Safe
To your bedroom
Probably safe
To the attic of adult life

Oh my
Caution
Or 
Instinct

Here we go

A Twenty-First Century Love Song

Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions; their visions.. 
Crossing her celestial, scintilating skies; deep inside tubular
Chimes lifting amid the breeze to these, tranquil orisons ? Subliminally 
Marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains; silvertone's rustic tides
Receding, from time's shores before my eyes; portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings 
To fly beyound their breakwater whirlpools, vortex designs ? Breathtaking 
Inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees and the eclipse of but once 
Paradoxic's moon, now utters her revelations touchstone moments ? Beckoning myself 
Aneath certitudes apex in parallel's reasons; these, realms about love's cloistered heavens 
Wherein beauty does, so reside ? Tubular chimes lifting amid the breeze; subliminally marked
Emotions afore bay windows and her silvertones, scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly....
Beyound His colour splashed canvas of pastels, immortal stardust ? A twenty-first century love song.

A Twenty-First Century, Love Song

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shuffling this scope of limited perceptions their visions

Crossing the celestials scintilating skies; deep inside tubular

Chimes lifting in the breeze to these tranquil orisons

Subliminally marked emotions rising in state; bay windows dismissing chains....

Silvertones rustic tides, receding from the shores before my eyes

Portent clarities bearing a Spirits wings to fly ~

Beyond the breakwater whirlpools vortex designs!?

Breathtaking inversions encapulating this heart as solipsism flees 

And the eclipse of the once paradoxic moon now utters her 

Revelations touchstone moments....

Beckoning myself aneath certitudes apex of parallel reasons these

Realms amid the cloistered heavens wherein, beauty does so reside ~

Tubular chimes lifting in the breeze, subliminally marked emotions afore

Bay windows in silvertones scintilating skies; bearing, wings to fly beyond

The colour splashed canvas of pastels immortal, stardust....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.."?A 21st Century, 'Love Song!'"..

This River Carried Me and a Flag I Never Thought I Had.

The white sun flared through, 
wrapped its melting-gold fingers
around window trim and clutched walls.
It was reluctantly dipping 
into the horizon of wood, like
a drowning man flailing 
his grip through the water’s tip.

A sweet-oak smoke billowed from the grill
and wove a grey veil around 
quiet slopes of light.

The river of my drink plunged me
into the stool in front of the bar-tender.

“The only thing I think I believe 
is that I don’t believe in solipsism.”, 
I flung between chimes of glasses 
and muted murmurs from a ball-game.

I slumped over to the side and
glanced at myself in the mirror 
between bottles of alcohol glinting
with wisps of white hair.
The curve of my cheek-bone
hung the flesh-flag of my I.
I liked it this time. 
And it rippled in the breeze from my smile.
    
The sun was losing it’s golden grip.
The smoke-veil unraveled
and furled into the descending glare.

There was absolutely
nothing I could do about it.

Solace

A relapse into solipsism sparks inside my soul;
An emptiness that ne'er before lay unconsumed is whole.

Is it blood or life now dripping from my lips;
Blood or life that's felt within a kiss?

If pain can purify
Who am I to deny?
If love is not regret
Then who am I to let it die,
To drown a sorrow in a lie
That never could belie the Truth

I can sigh, I can cry
Who am I?
I can try, I can die
Who am I?

There is something to see in this night
There is darkness here still to my sight

There is something to be
But it isn't quite free

The shackles of the boundless soul
But shackles to that selfsame hole
The storm of thought lets loose its rain
And who am I to claim that I could ever be the same?

Down
   Down
       Down
           Down
Dissolved within the hollow sound
Let loose within my boundless sea,
The soul that ever would be free,
The one last spark still left of me
Has
   Drowned

Yes,
       Drowned within the sea

Yea,
           Drowned within the soul of all that I will ever be

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