My Dissertation

What a mess.
A mess of ideas
clearly repressed creativity
phenomenological ontology
brute datum
Sartre, Sartre, Sartre
all of these men in my life.
Sylvia, babe, it’s all about you,
I’m trying to save you from the critics
and say your depression meant more
than surface scratches and love affairs,
but rather an existential crisis
You were abandoned
in anguish
in despair
because this world is meaningless,
it all means nothing,
it means nothing
(ironically, your poetry means
everything to me)
8000 words of philosophical
bullshit, masked with fancy linguistic
terms and broad arguments,
there’s no specificity
I clutch at straws
I need to prove that Ariel
is existentially-charged,
buzzing with phenomenological emotion.
I have 8000 words to prove this,
I want to do your words justice
because they’re beautiful and perfect
Sigh, what would Sylvia do?
She would study hard and get an A grade,
and make her mother proud. But she’d never
be happy. I will do the same.


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