Long Existentialism Poems
Long Existentialism Poems. Below are the most popular long Existentialism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Existentialism poems by poem length and keyword.
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
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
* ****** *
* *** *
*
And then, life bid me to love it
Yes, to love it
And to enjoy it
If not to make of it, my aim
My mission
My cause
The reason I do be!
And then, life pulled my cheeks wide
And bid me to shake off the sullen look
That I always wear
Have you not read
Whispered it to my heart
Have you not read in those books
That nothing about me is to be fretted for?
And then, life pulled my hands towards it
And said,
With a pleading look
Put these into good use
Remember that others of your kind
Are not so awakened
Remember that you have means
To help me!
And then, life pushed me, into nothingness
I fell, eyes closed
Heart booming
And with my whole self engaged in a frenzied fright
But instead of crashing to the floor
I landed gently
And on my feet!
I opened my eyes
And saw, looking at me expectantly
People, drowned in life's misery
People, having no time to dwell on existentialism
People, having to battle to live!
And then, life sent me a gust of wind
A gust which pushed me to these people
And I handed out my arms
And put them into helping them!
And then, I just know
The story shall continue
Someday, I will write of what happened
Someday, when I shall recount of all that I did on Earth
To the powers that wanted me to be!
The first Magna Carta initiated and asserted,
The people-centred philosophy which was budding:
‘Cos if the law is not a moral prescription of human rights,
Then it's just an ego-trip for a any monarchy’s plights.
After life’s origin with the big-bang,
Came matter, plants and animals;
And then apes preceded neanderthals,
When *****neanderthalensis were a gang.
*****sapiens then hit the scene,
Began to practice agriculture in 10000 BC,
And after that a process of civilisation ignited,
The law and order in the land in which we all can be.
And of course with law and order,
Comes creativity, art and industry;
An innate ability to express ourselves,
For greater relativity.
But the original political system,
Just consisted of a king with a crown,
Who was worshipped and adored:
Until his problem was this renown.
The people were disgruntled,
So rebelled against King John,
Who signed the Magna Carta,
Which said that he too was the law under.
So the law then began to pertain to moral values,
And humanism and atheism were for the first time aired,
Because John’s sins were no longer judged by God,
After his life and death, but by people who cared.
Philosophy has burgeoned from that point on,
From Albert the Great’s theory of justice and natural law,
To Descarte’s Heliocentrism and dualistic rationalism,
Which developed into individualism and existentialism.
Ideology matters to the evolutionary process of law,
As the law is either against people, or for them;
And before 1215 it never was the people’s abstract security,
But was rather their daily unhappiness and misery.
Humanity is so much better off for the Magna Carta,
Ourselves, America, Australia and all the world,
‘Cos each individual has human rights, worth and dignity,
As it wrought a change of diplomacy and philosophy.
In the heart, something ungoverned hums beneath the language of reason.
In the heart, feeling refuses names, slipping past definition like light through unclosed curtains.
In the heart, grief softens into a quiet weight, mistaken for emptiness by those who have not held it.
In the heart, desire grows in secret, wild and unchecked, asking for nothing it can justify.
In the heart, memory rearranges itself, a gallery where nothing hangs where it once did.
In the heart, words arrive too late,
Already inadequate to what they attempt to contain.
In the heart, we learn attachment not as theory, but as ache.
In the heart, pleasure leans too closely to pain, the two speaking in nearly identical voices.
In the heart, thought turns inward, questioning itself until meaning frays.
In the heart, the body remembers what the mind abandons.
In the heart, the self flickers, uncertain, unfinished.
In the heart, shame settles deep, unnamed but always understood.
In the heart, time stretches under sorrow, each moment lingering past its welcome.
In the heart, love becomes too many things at once: devotion, hunger, illusion.
In the heart, fear redraws the world in harsher lines.
In the heart, clarity becomes cold, almost cruel in its honesty.
In the heart, hope remains anyway—small, unreasonable, alive.
In the heart, contradictions make a home beside one another.
In the heart, silence is full, not empty.
In the heart, everything is felt too deeply, until feeling disappears alltogether.
The Magna Carta changed the rule of law,
That is, what the law was and who it was for,
From being a simple, dashing validation of the king,
To being about truth, reason and justice free-standing.
The Charter came into existence in 1215 with a rebellion,
Against King John and how he forced his will:
He could seize anyone’s cart, steal anyone’s livelihood,
Take their corn to dismiss whatever self-worth they’d tilled.
The barons and churches were given power:
Rights from illegal imprisonment and theft of money;
The church was allowed to worship and theologise,
Until John was not a legitimate monopolising authority.
However, church rights were only important,
Because in those days God was the small talk;
The conversation point and heartfelt social cause,
Such that religion became the concern of the first clause.
The Charter let ordinary people become,
Individual citizens, equal human beings to the king;
Saved them from their position as submissive servants,
Made them represented, and eventually self-ruling.
It allowed for the charging of taxes,
To raise an army of representative citizens,
Fit for the job of fighting and controlling,
Rather than simply enlisting those who were just willing.
Individualism as a pejorative term,
First appeared in the 1830s from the Owenites;
John Stuart Mill fostered and influenced it greatly,
Such that it's now a non-negotiable fundamentality.
Political governance needs individualism,
Albeit not as much as the tories would say;
Existentialism succeeded it and is implied by it,
Because meaning is your call and not the monarchy’s play.
There were many more Charters after that,
And they all specified the ordinary persons right,
To a fair trial and to state justice yourself,
With your imprisonment being your prison officer’s fight.
Rights and liberties pre-exist their enforcement,
And the original Magna Carta admitted that stout;
Gave people their intrinsic worth as human beings,
Created a people-centred land of devolved clout.
Greenish black silhouettes of trees
sans the complacency
mystique in their conversation,
a stream of uneven triangular arcs
in commune with the lilac-grey
puffs of floating vapor
coalescing in rebellion,
scent of wild delicate roses,
a lover's temptation,
cascades of prismatic water
falling like emotions hard
then, mingling plan-gently
in the river of thoughts,
a lavish pristine green meadow
inventive in its own league,
celestial beads of a night gown
defying the theory of
existentialism,
then why stand petrified
by the fire lit by yourself?
a self fluorish of ambiguities
and repine,
if discern the other side of
darkness
you lay ablaze in ethereal
incandescene,
the hieroglyphs of creator's rescue...
A dead boar, a terrible Ram Rajya, a crippled grasshopper—
A toothache-stricken sky—you, I,
The frustrated Jampui and Bhuban Bru.
My twenty-first lover—Bhuban Bru,
He had two hands, a brain, and a dozen or so bidis.
He knew how to cook well, and he could eat too.
One day, he made a broth with a wild boar and my blood—
Eating it, I felt like sacrificing my entire body to the cooking.
I even told him so; he didn't agree and sat down to write a poem,
The poem was titled Soil—
'Soil is nothing but the saliva of a spider
Soil means some deaths, soil is just the spider's own spit...'
Those memories come floating, sinking and rising in the Manu River,
I keep staring...,
Then someone comes and covers both my eyes and says—
'Tell me, who has come! '
I don’t know why I’m here. I quite literally don't understand. How do two tiny cells create something like me? Five feet and three inches and one hundred ten pounds of cells? What? This shouldn’t work. These single cells are not even alive. They are alive, but they don't have autonomy. They can't think for themselves. But somehow, together, they make me? A very much alive, configuration of dead things. But dead means you have to once have been alive and now I’m just so confused, do I ever die? Because if I’m made up of un-alive things, then how can I ever die. How could anyone ever die? I am a host to my cells, they live off me. I am what makes me alive. And yet, I am not. I can think, but who really is thinking? Who really is in my head making all these decisions? Who is deciding what to type? Right now. I put a period right now. I type ttthree extra t's. i do, but I don't. And why am I even wondering this at this very moment when I should be studying for this AP World test I have coming up. What sparked my intrigue about my very being? Why is it that at the dullest of moments, I begin to question my existence? And why is it that when I begin to do so, I extinguish the flame of life by overanalyzing everything until I can no longer breathe. Until I can no longer function. Until I am watching my life through a distance, a foggy pane as they might say. Two steps away from myself, controlling my movements by proxy. Living my life through another person's eyes. When will I realize that person is me?
Greenish black silhouettes of trees
sans the complacency
mystique in their conversation,
a stream of uneven triangular arcs
in commune with the lilac-grey
puffs of floating vapor
coalescing in rebellion,
scent of wild delicate roses,
a lover's temptation,
cascades of prismatic water
falling like emotions hard
then, mingling plan-gently
in the river of thoughts,
a lavish pristine green meadow
inventive in its own league,
celestial beads of a night gown
defying the theory of
existentialism,
then why stand petrified
by the fire lit by yourself?
a self fluorish of ambiguities
and repine,
if discern the other side of
darkness
you lay ablaze in ethereal
incandescene,
the hieroglyphs of creator's rescue...