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To be human is to live with a profound
Meaninglessness in the things we do
Every other twitch every thought everything we learn
Or enjoy or love or find cool does not
Contribute to our survival. Cartoons, pleasures,
Work, school, beauty - This is
What it means to human, these confusing action
Void of purpose unless otherwise
Justified by an outside source or by a long term goal.
But thinking about meaninglessness is also
Meaningless it is not a new or important thought
In fact it hinders my drive to survive and I
Would like to turn back time and take back this minute I used
To think useless thoughts before my approaching death
Please. Ecclesiastes says it well: I personally
Find no meaning in life unless the outside source of
The Christian God exists and loves me
And there are too many testimonies and history
for me to amount it to random chance so I guess
I commit philosophical suicide and
Somehow I am human and believe not in
Meaninglessness.
It’s intentionally structured like a rant.
fish-sama Mar 26
Conquest.
Soldiers need release.
80 years ago, I,
young lady, Chinese,
would've been a slave—
thrusted deep in the front lines
rotting bodies,         disease, and knives
inside me.             I am
the evidence they must hide.

Lucky me. I watch Japanese TV
and music and teens. I love
Japanese novels and Japanese comics
and Japanese history. Lucky me,
two-thousand-twenty-five,
age fifteen, Chinese.
Comfort women, most commonly from Korea, China, and Southeast Asia, were forced into s_xual slavery to "comfort" Japanese soldiers during the war. They were often sent to the front lines, treated incredibly harshly, and massacred at the end of the war to hide the evidence. I'm not supporting hate towards Japan. The government has already apologized and paid reparation to the comfort women hurt during World War II. This shows humility and is a good example of how atrocities during war should be dealt with. This poem was just a thought I had while studying history and visiting World War II museums.
fish-sama Mar 20
Your pupils shrink,
then expand,
Boundless void at the brink of consuming
crystals of storm. I withdraw my hand
From above the cyclone: the void disappears,
the sunbeams refract, my
cerebral processes falling
short.
For my best friend, shroomlin shroomster
fish-sama Mar 17
Peanut butter, window shutters flutter.
Yellow sunbeams, dusty TV, and
apathy. I lick the sweet
labor—blistered hands and twelve-hour
shifts—and I swallow, add some jam and
strawberries. Far away, exploited kids
and I don't give a ****.
I want peanut butter, pleasure, and
suffering plantations salty with
sweat and skinny families. I want
viscous apathy, yellow tragedy:
a burnt PB and J offering.
My friend told me to write about peanut butter
fish-sama Mar 4
One, two three four, five six..
Come, take a step, Christine.
My everything transfixed.
Stay, forever we'll spin.

Eight, eleven, thirteen
Wine, gunpowder, mirrors.
Love, my darling, remain!
Stay, don't leave me, stay I beg you, my light my rose my brightest everything...

Six, five four three, two one.
Pined perpetually
this monster, only
one.
Forever.
Inspired by phantom of the opera (the novel) and my personal experiences with loneliness
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