Deception of the Worst Kind

           Deception of the Worst Kind

 

 

Time descends into anarchy as my vanity rages to new levels of insanity. Each hair has to be pristine, perfect and seen by every single passer by, who eyeball me with shame. Yet who can blame them for treating me enviously, precariously as my presence deadens their confidence. Especially the man, of whom a product I am. My head held high, as my thighs lust for sexual tension in the 4^th dimension with any female who conceives my obsession of beauty as an answer not to be questioned. This era has not been reached as preached by those who celebrate the heavens or the earth. My self-worth depletes as I return to birth. I am a curse. Not a conception but an existent person that is lurking, searching for the exact moment that it will be correct to subject upon this other the feelings that I vent. Erect myself as a social figure of power as the hour bends, trends are broken and mended into a spectrum that is not like the one before. I am now the w***e of all you wish to be, align the planets and calm the sea. My Existence is no mystery. Misery maybe. Deliciously I write obscenities with the hope that you will condemn, snigger and sneer. Revere my life as a soundless laugh on those whose ignorance leads their blissfulness. Snap, now I have you betwixt, confused and bewitched between faith and fact.

 

Author's Note

The image used was just Mont Blanc by Wenzel Hablik. There was itention to pair my poem with Nietzsche's work 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra.' I used the imagine to convey the feelings of the character, who the reader is listening to, at their most extreme. I really am making no claim about Nietzsche or his works. As a philosophy student I would feel most aggrieved if people thought I was making claims that I had no intention to make :D

Reviews

[A.A.]

How well you know the egoist's mind. I wouldn't be wrong in saying you're escaping too, would I?..

I shan't critique the words, for they ring a little close to home, but why do you accompany such a vicious critique with Nietzsche's Zarathustra? It has none of Zarathustra's song or dance, and that, to be sure, was his point; one cannot laugh at these people nor condemn them, one must simply celebrate above them.

Do you not think it dangerous to feast your eyes on such a bleak and bitter sight? I mean to say.. Is there even a drop of Art to be had from such philosophy? Would we as people bent on 'becoming' not work far better amongst others of our kind, or else alone; the more I look about me, the more I see the sharpness of the modern youth, disgusted with the ego-ist, and ever-more I tell these people; turn away, and in time, those who cannot help themselves will be awoken, or they wont; we cannot help them until we ourselves are grown.

This is our world, all our poetry and art; it must not become a travesty for us.

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Syndris/665486/


All the best.

A.A.