My father would hurl words at me as if I didn’t matter,
He felt I was on a train that led nowhere,
“Step off that train and find your path,” he would say.
“You better do something about your nonexistence status,” he would continue.
Oh, some days I felt worthless,
Oh, some days I couldn’t find hope’s embrace,
It was as if I should hide in the night,
Or get lost somewhere in its shadows.
Although I was striving,
My father felt I wasn’t climbing,
He said I had stayed too long at the base,
That I had been too nonchalant while my peers ran ahead of me.
Sometimes at night, my father would call me to sit with him on the porch,
He would tell me stories about his journeys and struggles,
Then I would later become the topic of discussion,
He would say that his heart bleeds whenever he thinks about me.
“Oh, Father, if only you would be patient with me,” I would think.
“Oh, Father, if only you would accept the path I have chosen,” I would think further.
My father still hasn’t seen through me,
And I have learned to shield myself whenever he throws his arrows.
November 24, 2024.
The judgmental world is an empty place
where people are unforgiving if you are different
based on their failure of humanity
I was judged
to those who judged I was invisible
though in a crowd, no one saw me
I cried out, but no one heard me
unseen in a world filled with eyes
drenched in despair, soaked in loneliness
where their feet walked upon my tears
the hand I reached out, never taken
I was nobody
a singular figure obscured without reason or fault
becoming a ghostly phantom no one looked upon
this burden of nonexistence caused me to melt away
without resistance
no one saw me go, no one cared
no one knew I was there
I was...until I wasn't
it was a world where I did not exist
How did I become a human from stardust?
Born from stardust, a prisoner of the sky and earth,
Hidden by the distant stars and scattered by the wind in the night,
I feel like a nobody among forests and mountains, among rocks and cliffs.
I am the dishonest one who drinks from the reservoir of sincerity
In a process that happens when you believe in every death.
Shackled for eternity in a whirlpool of false immortality,
I let myself get lost out of complacency, to preserve myself in excellency.
A killer who is reborn by constantly passing through another death,
A refined spiritual torment that recreates a mundane man.
I return weeping to the scene of the crime, to discover myself unreal,
Naive in my own existence, eternally suspicious in nonexistence.
Unearth answers about the afterlife;
consider worlds where life starts with water.
Ever evolving to overcome strife,
learn to live with nature's proper order.
Without it, you'll miss that zest to exist
in those never-ending thoughts that we keep;
most people hope that their lives long persist,
nonexistence delusions do run deep.
"Rebirth" has a storied reputation,
which rises from living waters within.
Butterflies undergo transmutation,
become aware of how change can begin.
Together, these make an afterlife dream;
dream a new dream on this emergent theme.
From the patriots grave there comes a disturbance
a sound so faint it is distant less. It floats in on the wings of absurdity.
It defies the continuity of human expiration, upending the status quo
and invading the promised tranquility of the patriot's rest.
The sound stirs forever sleeping neighbors, displeasing compatriots
who had, as fated, come to peace with nonexistence.
Old threats, assumed battlefield defeated, are revived in the incoherent
oratory of an amoral man's quest for unrepressed power.
The sound he summons is autocracy rising, growing louder,
and not that far away. Pomposity begets confusion, discord follows.
Was this not the screamed rhetoric of long ago? Incendiary promises to
make their country great again. Instead, oratory that set it afire.
The fires, so long ago, dead heroes died to extinguish. New tyranny disturbs
forever slumber. Dead heroes, in graves, have no more to give.
We need new patriots to rise, to resist today's promised tyranny and quiet the hatred that hovers over America and the graves of heroes. All deserve peace.
I tarried for a moment...
I was tender to the sun.
Not sure I would be welcome...
I lay burdened by the one.
My loss of Faith was tragic...
Life's filter gone awry.
It seems of some importance
As I face towards the sky.
Who am I to grovel
For a life that's gone askew?
But one who stands exulted
And in Faith begins anew.
I fear not the nonexistence
Some associate with death.
The Grace of God awaits me
As I take my final breath.
The End
Wounds don't want scars.
The pains don't want to fight back.
They want nonexistence!
Chalk up the above
tummy knocker round
motley fool whimsical caprice
forever one generic
(ewe among us) scapegoat
bullied, lambasted, ostracized...
simian still silently suffering
life threatening wounds
since no protective Jason,
nor the Golden Fleece
shielded me against
Tormentors of Torghast even after
becoming gratefully dead,
struck by lightning bolts well greased
they will still increase
only difference when nonexistence prevails,
versus while given lease
as run(t) of the mill mortal
doth finally welcoming peace
of body, mind and spirit.
Aforestated gallimaufry mishmash
hoopfully doth explain
tangentially, loosely and amazingly
one after another graceful linkedin refrain
now heeds intuitive trumpeted
clarion call moon faced
cybersurfer to wax and wane.
Roll up welcome Harris tweed
Scottish tartan mat after
lame attempt bing witty and wise
fame and fortune elude,
nevertheless logophile continuously tries
this April 6th, 2022 no surprise
quotidian series of Lemony Snicket induced
unfortunate circumstances did rise
every hour these myopic eyes
blinked cognitive depth youthfulness belies,
when dawning consciousness did arise.
Sitting in the silence, hands hold dhyana mudra
and energy flows into a sea of tranquility.
The light envelops my being and physical sensations
slip into nonexistence, as my guide approaches.
A morning moment lends itself to new wisdom.
6-3-2021
Bite Size Poem no.4 Poetry Contest
Line Gauthier
final curtain
by Michael R. Burch
what would u give
to simply not exist—
for a painless exit?
he asked himself, uncertain.
then from behind
the hospital room curtain
a patient screamed—
"my life! "
Originally published by Setu. Keywords/Tags: final, curtain, death, mortality, suicide, euthanasia, uncertain, uncertainty, indecision, exit stage right, quick, painless, exit, hospital, patient, hospice, pain, painful, examination, surgery, existence, nonexistence, epitaph, eulogy, cancer, voice, stress
Chalk up the above
tummy whimsical caprice
forever one generic
(ewe among us) scapegoat
bullied, lambasted, ostracized...
simian still silently suffering
life threatening wounds
since no protective Jason,
nor the golden fleece
shielded me against torments even after
becoming gratefully dead,
they will still increase
only difference when nonexistence prevails,
versus while given lease
as run(t) of the mill mortal
doth finally welcoming peace
of body, mind and spirit.
Aforestated gallimaufry mishmash
hoopfully doth explain
tangentially, loosely and amazingly
one after another graceful linkedin refrain
now heeds intuitive trumpeted
clarion call moon faced
cybersurfer to wax and wane.
Roll up welcome Harris tweed Scottish mat after
lame attempt bing witty and wise
fame and fortune elude,
nevertheless logophile continuously tries
this February 28th, 2020 no surprise
quotidian series of Lemony Snicket induced
unfortunate circumstances did rise
every hour these myopic eyes
blinked cognitive depth youthfulness belies,
when dawning consciousness did arise.
mergence of thoughts, look into that mirror,
one that begins underneath your child’s eyes —
slip a look, or like Alice
should your son or daughter slip into nonexistence...
do you see their head as a wastebucket
where you wad up lined paper
throw it into their basket...
could that you see the wrinkles that form
the worry lines like rivulets
all over her...his….non-discriminant face.
the jewel that dreams a longing
like the Nile belonging, hugging the coast.
don’t tower over a youth
like a strong babbling brawn.
look into the clear waters of their mind,
they become clearer all the time
at eye level with their thoughts,
strands behind the ears,
even the pimples on the nose —
suppose you love all of their apropos refrain.
suppose you dream their dreams too…
2/7/2020
a muse cornered
screaming against mind's walls
locked in dungeons of thought
unable to escape
in verse, or metaphor
common words
without rhythm
faltered in sentences
unable to create imagery
recreate forms
or express depths of emotion
no temporary escape
from bottled pain
no ink to bleed
through metered words
just pages
falling ordinary
like a history book
lacking details
to bore you
to sleep
no shakespearean sonnets
to recreate, no plays to enact
no raven's of poe's to recite
no words to excite
no lyrics to songs
just music without words
falling silent to the screams
locked in mind's thoughts
unable to be birthed
through poetry
in it's nonexistence
January 20, 2020
if there were no poetry contest
sponsored by Silent One
When I was young, oh life,
the breeze of your dreams gently caressed
my enchanted innocent heart
making it believe that all it wished for was
within the reach of the possible.
With the passing of unforgiving time though
and the coming of inescapable old age,
the scourging sun of merciless reality
evaporated youth's illusion:
Of impossibility's nonexistence!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
12 December 2019
The truth has become subjective
to question authority is now rejected
Power is for only the selective
Who is left is mocked and neglected
Answer me not for questions are nonexistence
If you want to live swallow spoon feed acceptance
Social media control ends all resistance
Escape your sorry life by marveling at elite splendor
You will be told what you are
You will be controlled very hard
You will live by what we give
You will believe as we need
Answer me not for you have no voice
Why questions when you have no choice
Do as we allow so smile and rejoice
You are void of thought, surrender
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