Existentialism Poems - Poems about Existentialism

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. ...

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

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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...

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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...

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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. ...

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(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,...

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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...

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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....

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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...

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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...

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I am dying and that's fine Because You are also dying ...

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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...

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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...

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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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drove wife to doctor counting wheelchair ramp spindles ~waiting for Godot 7/10/2020 My wife smiled at this one. Or was it a smirk? Waiting for Godot is a play by Samuel Beckett...

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