Best Existentialism Poems
Absurdity, chaos,
strife:
The poet chooses
virtuous reality.
Sisyphus, a
titanic wave of metamorphosis, waiting, salted nausea:
The thinker roughed by sand
a solitary tree in a barren desert
defies absurdity
by seeking meaning in the absurd.
Authenticity,
vision, conformity, religion:
The rebel a roaring
wildfire igniting change like:
authenticity,
vision, and non-conformity
forging their own path.
Project,
reflect, individuality:
The human river
tasting the minerals of experience
expresses identity
and discovers themselves.
Leap,
Übermensch,
ethics,
logotherapy:
The agent
acts with freedom and responsibility
finding purpose.
Meaning,
joy, void, hope:
The sweet-smelling optimist a sunflower
fills emptiness with hope
seeking light in the darkness.
Truth,
illusion, reality, fiction:
The rationalist
discerns the real and the imagined.
Contradiction,
logic, emotion:
The harmonist
strives for balancing
the rational and emotional.
Freedom,
authenticity, manipulation, conformity:
The individualist
resists pressure and influence.
Awareness,
paradox, courage, hope:
The existentialist
embraces the absurd and transcends.
Leak,
speak,
strike,
kneel:
The activist challenges-
The status quo and injustice.
Tirelessly fights for justice!
Death,
suicide, violence, genocide:
The mortal
faces limit and horror with courage.
Despair,
nightmare:
The lover
shares and cares with love.
Existence
precedes essence?
Or essence
precedes existence?
The question
haunts forever.
The Stoic
Observes, unmoved yet aware:
Virtue alone suffices
whether essence or existence;
In reason and nature
we find our constant companion.
Like you, I too once entertained the childish theology of monsters beneath the bed.
Only, where you slept with your face toward the door, praying for survival, I turned my back to the darkness, because I did not care whether it killed me—
for I did not fear being destroyed when I was already tormented by the violence within my mind.
Be it that I am doomed to walk the Earth
In fear of time - measured in mere fractions;
Starlight grants me comfort with twinkling mirth,
Lost in wakes of dread deeper than oceans.
I'd ask what it means to live over time,
of paupers; preachers; aristocrats, too -
why lives are measured in short centuries.
For stars, it is nothing if not untrue.
A middle child with no hope to call mine;
with stately manners, I protest, "I'm fine,
doomed to be but shadows and memories."
Stardust divines our eager fingerprints
imbued on the walls of our history:
generations defined by reticence
and willful blindness to its mystery.
I'd ask what it means to swallow my fears,
of gods and kings and legends in their prime,
to carve in my heart courage that's blinding -
Like stars whose light shines long after their time.
O' Father I'll pray the rest of my years
through the funeral rites and birthday cheers,
"Grant me the stars when life stops rewinding."
With tired devotion left in my soul
I'll shatter the world to see what I'm worth -
memories that used to make me feel whole,
buried like innocence lost in childbirth.
I'll say what it means to temper my pride
to mothers and fathers, both who are lost,
Silently waiting till we come of age.
It's the ones you bring up that bear the cost.
Tell your kids before their eyes open wide;
Before their lungs, filled with air, rise like the tide;
"Stand and face your mortality with rage!"
I will lie.
I will cheat.
I will steal.
I will destroy whole worlds.
And then I will change and all is forgiven.
Is life meaningless or full of sense?
Can we tell? Or perhaps we're too dense.
But I'd rather not know.
It's a good status quo.
I prefer existential suspense.
When something of substance is written,
It impedes the senses.
When bric-a-brac is offered,
People flock to it.
At the end of life
Those of common taste
And full of depravity
Will never escape
earth's gravity.
Life must be questioned to discover the truth.
Spending all our time in a lonely photo booth,
Taking pictures of our past reflectively aloof,
Hiding in nostalgia to recapture our youth,
Or should we just get over ourselves?
Life should be quizzed to find out what’s wrong.
Living through sorrow to make ourselves strong,
Running past others to get ahead and get along,
Wasting this precious time just playing Mahjong,
Or should we get up and do things?
Life needs a questionnaire to learn what is good.
Gentrify houses to fix the mentality of the hood,
Discuss filmic characters such as Bella and Edward,
Purchase some shelves made from quality wood,
Or should we create stuff of our own?
Life needs a meaning, so let us look for an answer.
Is it in the lucid movements of the simplest dancer?
Is it in the poetry of the pen, or in fighting cancer?
Will we learn it by study, or travelling to France, Sir?
No. The meaning of life is to live.
I am dying and that's fine
Because You are also dying
Albeit more slowly and less frequently
But misery loves company
So, I count you into my suffering
For me I prefer to get it over with
YOU ARE DEAD
MOSTLY BECAUSE GOD LOVES YOU MORE
THIS WAY WE DON’T FEEL LIKE YOU ARE GONE
BUT MAYBE WE WILL SEE YOU AGAIN
WE JUST NEED GOD TO REALLY BE UP THERE
But the will to jump off this story is faltering
Let the tale decide my time of no glory
Playing secondary roles in all your synopses
I live to die again tomorrow in the morning
For you let it happen just slowly
To allow you to keep doing it seminally
It matters yes but only in a jiffy
Good thing is it will be over finally
And we will all understand my mutterings
I am dying you are dying we are dying
A defiant chant to remind us of living
And that’s fine and comforting
I am dying and that’s fine
Because you are dying too
i've grown weary
of this story
growing
weary
of this frame
oh so weary
of this cosmos
in which I got this name
and I can't remember why I came
I'm fearful for the leaving
can't seem to quit the game
oh how I love this loathsome body
I carry with me night and day
and when I look into the mirror
I see a stranger face
sweet solace sought in speaking
my wearisome refrain
no rest foreseen in sleeping
if I must wake again
in lukewarm purgatory
on waves that toss and strain
in sitcoms just repeating
weary lines and jokes again
and again
IS THERE NOW ANOTHER WAY, ANOTHER NEW NAME
FOR THE THEOSOPHICALLY THEOCRACY TO CLAIM
AND DENY THAT THE LORD FATHER, MAN DID MAKE
IN HIS OWN IMAGE, AND IN MAN FREE WILL DID INSTATE
AND NOW MAN DEEMS THE AUDACITY, THE LORD TO BLAME
AND THAT SOME HUMAN BEINGS DENY NOW THE FATHER HIS NAME
FOR DOES NOT ALL TENETS AND DOGMATIC DOCTRINES
FROM PEDESTALS ALOFT AN ORIGINATER SCREAMS
THE FACT THAT MAN HAS BEEN GIVEN FREE WILL
IS DECREED FROM HIGH, THOUGH SOME TO DENY IT STILL
EVEN ACADEMICS AND SCIENTIST THIS TRUTH NOW DECRY
THAT SOME-ONE, SOMETHING ALL THIS DID SANCTIFY
NOW THE LAWS OF LIFE AND THE LAWS OF THE LORD FATHER
ARE LAWS TO FOLLOW WITH CONSIDERATIONS FOR ONE ANOTHER
AND WHEN THESE LAWS ARE CAST ASUNDER
THERE IS NO ONE TO BLAME, FOR THE HAVOC, BUT EACH OTHER
WE HAVE FREE WILL TO CREATE FREE WILL TO LOVE
FREE WILL TO CHOOSE THE PATH HOME TO THE FATHER ABOVE
OUR FREE WILL TO DESTROY OUR FREE WILL TO MAIM
BRING UPON US ALONE OUR OWN PUNISHMENTS TO CLAIM
THERE IS NO ONE ELSE TO BLAME FOR OUR SHAME
BUT WE AS MAN ALONE OUR ROAD TO SANITY CAN ORDAIN
FOR THE LORD FATHER IS PURE LOVE OF THE HIGHEST
AND MAN CAN HIMSELF REDEEM IN THE LIGHT OF THAT GREATNESS.
Expect me to be what I want to be,
Xeroxing all that I see in my mind,
In order to keep from remaining blind,
Subjected to what others think of me.
Try, thee, to keep me from having a free
Existence, while being both cruel and kind,
Never keeping me from trying to find
The desire to want to pay that fee.
I ultimately have the right to choose
Any path that I am willing to take,
Learning that these choices may leave a bruise.
Insecure folks fake the moves that they make,
Submitting to the news of others views,
More times or less for someone else's sake.
Living layers of being tugged around scraps of lusterless metal shape the man who was
Or is it the other way around
He can not tell anymore
Improvements or subpar substitutions
He marches on despite his contemplation
The clang and tang of metal on metal echo from his right leg while the muffled thud of organic flesh whispers from his lesser left
He marches on
Imagine feeling where your blood stops flowing as if your veins have hit a metal door yet beyond its frame lay dancing ghost who mock your past
With every augmentation he advances yet diminishes his mortality and morality
Still he marches on
On assignment that must be completed
Computing
The command was entered, a reaction will occur, must occur
His ability for choice is doubtful yet feared
A semi-bionic time bomb ticking its way to a liberating explosion of conscience freedom
Until then he will march on
there pigeon l
a
Y _______
blood dripping from f ~ e ~ a ~t ~h ~e ~r ~s
glazed eyes wounded
a passerby filed passed
angry little boy
kicked
venting RAGE of
L i F e
in a township flat _________\\\_____
bird rolled forward
onto railway line
|. __ |
|. ___ |
|. ___ |
will to live extinguished Ex ex eeeee
on its tiny Heart beat []{}#%^*+=
pumping
pumping
half-living blood
breathing silent it lay
eyelids opened in blazing Sun UuuUuNnN Son-SuuuunNn
chicks long past gone &&&
seeking their own worms ~~~~
in loamy fertile soil :::::::::
::::::::::::::::::..
boy mocked with bright
conquering eyes
@ @
brown irises in wonder
at dull dying WILL will Will die
tried to reach f
e
e
B
l
e
body
with spidery fingers
dirt encrusted nails \/ \/
ran off ~>> repulsed
a woman died with moist
eyes drip
p
InG
blood…….—————|||||||
an ___________unnecessary DEATH
she walked ^^^^ HOME
questing her STAR
* ****** *
* *** *
*
She wears a pure, pink dress.
Nature is her sanctuary.
Curiosity is her comfort.
She sits among the fallen, pink petals
Of the magnolia tree
And wonders:
Why must the petals plummet,
Leaving the trunk blackened and bare?
The once soft, smooth petals
Have become withered, wilted,
Their distant trunk exhausted, parched.
Why must nature be so cruel?
Why must the young mind never rest?
Juvenile questions satiate her curiosity
While existential ones suffocate.
Unexplainable phenomena maintain a habitat,
Not in the magnolia, but in her head.
The puzzle of existence overpowers
The instincts and adaptations of nature.
Science can explain the latter.
The petals must plummet
So the tree can survive
The wicked conditions of winter.
But how must the young girl grip with
The flood of unanswered reflections?
Inquiries into nature quickly become futile
For an adolescent.
Dreadful, empty pits of interrogation
Into inward contemplation creep into the mind
Creating conditions inhospitable to innocence.
If only I could tell her
To bear these ambiguities for just a little longer
before they leave her bare.
She must conquer these queries
Before they conquer her.
For a long time I've questioned the phrase
"Women are from Venus, while Men are from Mars".
As my science classes memory stands, Venus
is a ball of lava and eruptions,
while Mars is a planet destitute of life or warmth.
I began questioning whether that's why men
tell women "you're hot", while women tell men
"you're cool....."
My thoughts wandered further, and I began questioning
what mode of transport both sexes used to arrive on Earth,
and why they left their planets.
I doodled my theories so much, until they tied themselves
into knots, which created immature conclusions.
I began asking myself whether I was a Martian,
and maybe that’s why women perceive us men
as aliens without green skins or swim suits.
I searched for all the tins and metal sheets,
and began building a rocket in my backyard.
I chuckled in my heart as I joined the pieces together,
for I knew I needed a flame from Venus, to thrust me up
and away, to face the truth. My rocket also needed a co-pilot
who would use the sixth sense to guide me throughout the journey.
The co-pilot would be none other than my wife!
We would streak together like a shooting star in the night sky,
as a girl makes a wish to us, asking when she would visit Venus,
her roots……
Theme #2: Travelling to Mars