POEMS, SONGS AND POETIC GIFS

Conscious Depersonalization (Subjectivity Recognizes Itself as a Social Construct)

Author: D’Bara Arruda

Dearest me,
I felt a knot in the empty stomach of senselessness.
What is the moral value of emotions that, at first glance, seem noble?

Look, I know someone once said:
“Hell is other people.”
Sartre, you bastard!
I say: “Hell is knowing I am the others.”

TV depresses me,
shop windows oppress me,
consumption consumes me.

Aspiring makes me feel sublime,
desiring confuses me,
pity bribes my ego.
Being empathetic blinds me.

Criticizing empties me,
judging atrophies my thinking.
Liking gives me fame,
shining extinguishes me.

Choosing gives me indigestion,
winning causes me indignation.
Staying silent creates noise;
to not see,
I cover my ears.

Breathing lowers my intellect.
I dirty myself to stay clean.
My truth is a lie.

I dive to dream,
I wake to live a nightmare.

The sun is the only one who knows that,
to live,
I must die
and be born from my past.

While the moon laughs at my rebirth,
the future curses the present.

And what they pay me as salary
makes me a hostage of convenience,
of the false sense of happiness,
absorbed by the inhuman comfort
of compliments that oppose sincerity.

My tears poison reason,
my feelings inspire me...
wickedness.

My guilt was not stepping
on the minute I lost.
My pride was to ejaculate
prematurely beyond time
and impregnate my hope
with a stillborn.

Remove the Velcro of post-colonial mentality
and, if you dare, pull the irony from your fingertips
and lock your mirror away.

What Narcissus does not see is not remembered.
Pseudo-Midas,
the neutral one is an accomplice of fool’s gold.

Dear reader, accomplice of my delusions,
I leave here an addendum with no excuses:

You reached the bottom of the well
and discovered the bottom was a mirror.
Now, it remains to be decided: break it or accept the reflection?

Depersonalized,
I pretend to still care.
But deep down,
even this indifference
is a role I’ve memorized.

Memento morium

If by chance you reflect, the guilt is yours.
But do so far from ropes, knives,
or any object that might fuel your wrath.
This poem may be the double-edged blade
that cowardice still keeps you from wielding courageously.

<<

>>

Poemas

Entre o silêncio e o grito, minha alma se revela em poesia. Clique e descubra o que só o sentir é capaz de traduzir.

Música

Entre a melodia e as raízes culturais,
minha alma transborda em música.
Clique e escute o que só o corpo pode transmutar

Gifs Poéticos

Entre imagens em movimento
e versos em expansão,
minha arte pulsa em silêncio animado

D'Bara ©

POEMS, SONGS AND POETIC GIFS

Conscious Depersonalization (Subjectivity Recognizes Itself as a Social Construct)

Author: D’Bara Arruda

Dearest me,
I felt a knot in the empty stomach of senselessness.
What is the moral value of emotions that, at first glance, seem noble?

Look, I know someone once said:
“Hell is other people.”
Sartre, you bastard!
I say: “Hell is knowing I am the others.”

TV depresses me,
shop windows oppress me,
consumption consumes me.

Aspiring makes me feel sublime,
desiring confuses me,
pity bribes my ego.
Being empathetic blinds me.

Criticizing empties me,
judging atrophies my thinking.
Liking gives me fame,
shining extinguishes me.

Choosing gives me indigestion,
winning causes me indignation.
Staying silent creates noise;
to not see,
I cover my ears.

Breathing lowers my intellect.
I dirty myself to stay clean.
My truth is a lie.

I dive to dream,
I wake to live a nightmare.

The sun is the only one who knows that,
to live,
I must die
and be born from my past.

While the moon laughs at my rebirth,
the future curses the present.

And what they pay me as salary
makes me a hostage of convenience,
of the false sense of happiness,
absorbed by the inhuman comfort
of compliments that oppose sincerity.

My tears poison reason,
my feelings inspire me...
wickedness.

My guilt was not stepping
on the minute I lost.
My pride was to ejaculate
prematurely beyond time
and impregnate my hope
with a stillborn.

Remove the Velcro of post-colonial mentality
and, if you dare, pull the irony from your fingertips
and lock your mirror away.

What Narcissus does not see is not remembered.
Pseudo-Midas,
the neutral one is an accomplice of fool’s gold.

Dear reader, accomplice of my delusions,
I leave here an addendum with no excuses:

You reached the bottom of the well
and discovered the bottom was a mirror.
Now, it remains to be decided: break it or accept the reflection?

Depersonalized,
I pretend to still care.
But deep down,
even this indifference
is a role I’ve memorized.

Memento morium

If by chance you reflect, the guilt is yours.
But do so far from ropes, knives,
or any object that might fuel your wrath.
This poem may be the double-edged blade
that cowardice still keeps you from wielding courageously.

<<

>>

© D'Bara Arruda – All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying, reproduction or commercial use is prohibited.
Licensed under Creative Commons with mandatory attribution.

Poemas

Música

Gifs Poéticos

D'Bara ©

D'Bara ©

POEMS, SONGS AND POETIC GIFS

Conscious Depersonalization (Subjectivity Recognizes Itself as a Social Construct)

Author: D’Bara Arruda

​

Dearest me, I felt a knot in the empty stomach of senselessness. What is the moral value of emotions that, at first glance, seem noble?

​

Look, I know someone once said: “Hell is other people.” Sartre, you bastard! I say: “Hell is knowing I am the others.”

​

TV depresses me, shop windows oppress me, consumption consumes me.

​

Aspiring makes me feel sublime, desiring confuses me, pity bribes my ego. Being empathetic blinds me.

​

Criticizing empties me, judging atrophies my thinking. Liking gives me fame, shining extinguishes me.

​

Choosing gives me indigestion, winning causes me indignation. Staying silent creates noise; to not see, I cover my ears.

​

Breathing lowers my intellect. I dirty myself to stay clean. My truth is a lie.

​

I dive to dream, I wake to live a nightmare.

​

The sun is the only one who knows that, to live, I must die and be born from my past.

​

While the moon laughs at my rebirth, the future curses the present.

​

And what they pay me as salary makes me a hostage of convenience, of the false sense of happiness, absorbed by the inhuman comfort of compliments that oppose sincerity.

​

My tears poison reason, my feelings inspire me... wickedness.

​

My guilt was not stepping on the minute I lost. My pride was to ejaculate prematurely beyond time and impregnate my hope with a stillborn.

​

Remove the Velcro of post-colonial mentality and, if you dare, pull the irony from your fingertips and lock your mirror away.

​

What Narcissus does not see is not remembered. Pseudo-Midas, the neutral one is an accomplice of fool’s gold.

​

Dear reader, accomplice of my delusions, I leave here an addendum with no excuses:

​

You reached the bottom of the well and discovered the bottom was a mirror. Now, it remains to be decided: break it or accept the reflection?

​

Depersonalized, I pretend to still care. But deep down, even this indifference is a role I’ve memorized.

​

Memento morium

​

If by chance you reflect, the guilt is yours. But do so far from ropes, knives, or any object that might fuel your wrath. This poem may be the double-edged blade that cowardice still keeps you from wielding courageously.

<<

>>

© D'Bara Arruda – All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, reproduction or commercial use is prohibited. Licensed under Creative Commons with mandatory attribution.

Poemas

Música

Gifs Poéticos

D'Bara ©

Dearest me,
I felt a knot in the empty stomach of senselessness.
What is the moral value of emotions that, at first glance, seem noble?

Look, I know someone once said:
“Hell is other people.”
Sartre, you bastard!
I say: “Hell is knowing I am the others.”

TV depresses me,
shop windows oppress me,
consumption consumes me.

Aspiring makes me feel sublime,
desiring confuses me,
pity bribes my ego.
Being empathetic blinds me.

Criticizing empties me,
judging atrophies my thinking.
Liking gives me fame,
shining extinguishes me.

Choosing gives me indigestion,
winning causes me indignation.
Staying silent creates noise;
to not see,
I cover my ears.

Breathing lowers my intellect.
I dirty myself to stay clean.
My truth is a lie.

I dive to dream,
I wake to live a nightmare.

The sun is the only one who knows that,
to live,
I must die
and be born from my past.

While the moon laughs at my rebirth,
the future curses the present.

And what they pay me as salary
makes me a hostage of convenience,
of the false sense of happiness,
absorbed by the inhuman comfort
of compliments that oppose sincerity.

My tears poison reason,
my feelings inspire me...
wickedness.

My guilt was not stepping
on the minute I lost.
My pride was to ejaculate
prematurely beyond time
and impregnate my hope
with a stillborn.

Remove the Velcro of post-colonial mentality
and, if you dare, pull the irony from your fingertips
and lock your mirror away.

What Narcissus does not see is not remembered.
Pseudo-Midas,
the neutral one is an accomplice of fool’s gold.

Dear reader, accomplice of my delusions,
I leave here an addendum with no excuses:

You reached the bottom of the well
and discovered the bottom was a mirror.
Now, it remains to be decided: break it or accept the reflection?

Depersonalized,
I pretend to still care.
But deep down,
even this indifference
is a role I’ve memorized.

If by chance you reflect, the guilt is yours.
But do so far from ropes, knives,
or any object that might fuel your wrath.
This poem may be the double-edged blade
that cowardice still keeps you from wielding courageously.

© D'Bara Arruda – All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying, reproduction or commercial use is prohibited.
Licensed under Creative Commons with mandatory attribution.