Subjective Poems - Poems about Subjective

I know that art’s subjective; Everyone has different taste, So one exhibit that I love Might be, to you, a waste. The same applies to music – Some like opera, jazz or blues, Country, rock and roll or show tunes – What some pick, I’d never choose. And what about vacations? Many opt for beach or isle, While a city with museums Is a...

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Harrowed heart Abstruse abstract art Canvas concealed ...

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Time is a subjective thing, depending on your viewpoint. Whenever you're in a rush or anxious, suddenly, time feels perceptively slow, but if you are having fun, it speeds up. A child's day runs forever; they always find time to play. Reality was once theirs to explore; oblivious to all watches and clocks, their understanding of time was askew. But those long days did not...

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What is art? Almost no two people agree We all have our own ideas I love what she despises She has mean things to say I only have delightful things in my head Because I love it, it has called to my soul. He comes along and pokes fun at a piece of art that she loves She loses her temper, now...

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In the passing of the still everything moved in the darkness of No light everything was bright captivated by The stance everything was at a glance as we hovered as we stand we are in a faced with reprimand I am biased though I am objective these thoughts are not reflective abraising patterns of confusion...

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I love this painting; it reminds me of my grandmother’s apron. I see her kitchen and smell fresh chocolate chip cookies. Another despises it; It reminds her of being raped when she was four. The wallpaper on her Uncle’s walls. She smells him. Art is subjective....

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She loves it; he hates it; the children are indifferent. Max, the son, runs toward an abstract artist the others do not understand. Charlotte, the daughter, is reading a book, loving it that she has a bench. The largest art gallery in New York has no pull to her. Stepdad is pretending to like what their mother is oohing...

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The sweet perfume of the flower Is in the nose of the sniffer....

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flowers in conversation or confrontation in white-bright light. duet, leaning as if elbowing the window of an automobile, glaring-blank stare. the other with violet eyes - the kind that drives the point home. 5/20/2021...

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Old adage: What goes around comes around Recovery from Subjective Sight Subjective eyesight sees a narrow way No stoic smile for the inner child's face Headlong into a righteous angst delay- Humility on trial with biased grace. Peering into mansions of another soul, Reminds ego explore all new labyrinths, Savor truth hidden in rhythmic rhymes’ role Let words escape harsh judgements damning...

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...But, of course, this gets me thinking on the fact that consciousness must be near if the subjective is to exist, since looking at matter, it appears that no life, thought, or driving impulse exists in the void of gas and rock, existence itself is objective, but even that thought makes me take stock. matter may be cold and objective, but has no awareness...

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I often think of philosophy, the big questions of why we are here, and of course, once I start doing that, all sorts of quirky problems appear. For example, take the great question, that has puzzled us for all of time, is reality objective truth, or the subjective whims of the mind? I fall into the objective camp, the world goes on, no cares...

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Fat is beautiful, thin is beautiful too. Black is beautiful, so is white. Isn't beauty subjective? Aren't we crystallizing 'arbitrary constructs' way too much? And ending up victimizing that stranger, that friend, our very own selves? The poem examines this. Every morning when the mirror greets her She would scorn and yell things bitter "Thick fat of...

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when i first saw you your hair was in a wrap almost seeming African in the presentation of yourself was there hidden a tumbling down lost treasure that i found or was she bald but that never phased me because i saw her face without make up yet made to be simple purity of poetry in motion yet emotionally i only need to just softly speak for how dare i might mistak ingly awaken her from her night...

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Time can be a great friend, some time feels like torture. I wonder what time this is. Hey brother, do you have the time? ** Perspective...

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