Existentialism Poems

Transience

Everything is temporary. Maybe it's not even real...
Life, this life...
I think you know, we have already been here.
Post-apocalyptic existence.
Utopian dreams.
Uncertainty at the surface,
the shift in between.
Contemplation and choice.
Birth.
Life.
Death.
They are all one and the same,
sharing the same knife,
to carve out the same name.

ACHE OF A THOUSAND SUNS

A thing that yearns in constant devour,
And finds itself to be a constant sour,
Totally dissolute… and an accumulation of none,
Is the thing that burns, at a constant run.

For the thing is… in all its effortless glory,
The ache of a thousand suns.

existentialism

are these beetles born
to die around burning bulbs?
zenith of folly

Be Yourself-ish

To be yourself-ish
Or to be yourself-less
That is the question:

It's like not knowing yourself
to be “yourself” that you'll be 
everyone else but you

But knowing yourself
that being yourself
cause all but hurt for you

If they know themselves
they’ll save themselves by
knowing they can't save you

So you think to yourself
To end yourself to
spare them the truth

But don't refuse yourself 
and

Fractals of Freedom: Virtues in a Void

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

The Brain-Heart Test

In what good has it all come to
In my imaginary mind?
We roll through the wake of the water,
Goddammitting our way through.
Rising with our victories.
Cursing in our swift descents.
Buddhists are laughing on the shoreline.
I’m selling popcorn on the boat.

Coping Skills

(Family heirloom, Persian Gharajeh rug)

Coping Skills

The world is certainly not as it should be.
Maybe it’s always been that way,
But now we know 24/7.

So we each and all cope as best we can.
For some this can be as bad as becoming a serial killer,
For others as innocuous as being addicted to exercise 
Or in my case,

Recursa Absurda

Straight lines, sepia

The suppression of unwanted thoughts

Like time spent in sensory deprivation
Time spent in a droning room
Under sterile light hums, practically drooling

The vacuum of most moments
As standard as cinder blocks
Punctuated by things so washed out, they'd pass as monochrome

Blobs moving by on the way to unimportancees

Stagnancy, cave drips, supermarket music, traffic
Grey meat, mushy greens, halfway

Dreams

All Dreams end, sadly

The stardust they are made of,  

Scattered, 

To form again for others.

We travel with the dust, 

Blowing, 

From dream to dream.

A caravan of moments 

Held together by our feelings.

The best of these dreams:

The one I had of you.

Existentialism Emancipation Proclamation Manumission

Existentialism emancipation proclamation manumission...

Flourishes amidst freedom 
once invisible (alice in) chains shucked
when soul no longer kept linkedin 
to jane's addiction 
with corporeal duty, entity, fealty... 
while formerly shed body electric 
gendered as former googly eyed hotmail 
actually a prodigy, whose outlook 
arouses suspicions regarding him 
as person of pinterest living social 
in a webbed, wide

Tunnel

Through these rough terrains
Past the ruthless showers
I tread on 
The tunnel seems
Without an end
And yet I go on
Is that last shimmering piece
In me, gold hued
Hope?

I trudge along
To the sound of strangers
Appealing me to go on
Like salesman 
Going on and on about the perks
The benefits

I have never touched them
Known their warmth
Breathed the same air as them
And

I Died ,We Died

I am dying and that's fine

                                 Because You are also dying 

           

The Magnolia

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

The Middle Children

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

The Contemplation of An Augmentation

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

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