Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i read
an article
on self-realisation
about how
we are an echo
of the universe
and how
we can use
that awareness
to unlock
   our greatness

it stated that
an echo
is merely
a vibration
from point
   to point
across an expanse
it explained that
all objects
throughout the universe
   with energy
that all objects
are a manifestation
of energy;
we are
nothing more
than clusters
   of energy
through space
and time

over time
echoes weaken
and fade
into nothingness
returning to
the universe's preferred
state of equilibrium
that cosmic balance
between order
   and chaos
which existed
long before
our disturbance
and will surely
return again

the article
was meant to be
an aid for
   inner peace
but it seems
i may have
   the point
the dead bird Sep 2021
What am I supposed to do with all
Of this
Passion —
Okay, calling it passion is a stretch.
It’s boiling ******* anger
For my own existence.

What am I to do?
Share it? With whom?
Who might appreciate?
Even if they do,
I’d probably be dissatisfied
About something.
I’m sure of it.

Why am I so
Existentially dissatisfied?
At what point will I think
Anything is enough,
Or worthy of my

Does it need to destroy me in order for me to respect it?

I’m making myself sound like a *****.
Really, I am
But a self aware one.
Like, I realize that I’m a pretentious *******
And I hate myself for it,
So that you don’t have to.

Why do I long for attention,
When I am so
By it

Just pathetic,
It’s like I think
the window which I’m looking out of
Makes me better
Than those who have a different view.

Sometimes I wish I was stupid so that I wouldn’t think I was better than other people.
Or at least stupid enough
To ignore my own hypocrisy.
Why the ****
does it always come back to
That story about
The flowers for that dead ******* rat

Is it too late to get a lobotomy?
I hate myself for hating myself for hating other people. Also yes I did really want to be a nihilist when I first studied Camus & the three schools ****. I settled on exestential nihilism for awhile. now, me and the Absurd sit and smoke blunts together and laugh at my pathetic existence
I've realised that I have taken life too seriously. So, I delved into absurdist thought. The idea is so fascinating. There's no meaning to this life, to this universe, to this reality of ours. And the protagonist is going insane, trying to find a meaning to this meaningless existence, toying between societal perception and individual perception. In the entirety of his/her journey, he/she meets a variety of people, engages in crazy doings, takes the unwalked path, develops a purpose to prolong this mundane existence, eventually leaves it and drowns in melancholy, haphazardly moves to another purpose, then another, at some point maybe religion, then back to reality, unleashes  creativity in the most disdain places, unleashes creativity in the most affluent places, moves to social work, gives out opinions on social realities, and fantasy(utopian society), finally commits to a normal job, earns well, gets married, most likely has children, gives love to them and dies, probably peacefully.
Daisy Hemlock Jul 2021
I've learned to know without thinking
In fact, I barely even use my brain
I'm dumb.
But I know a few things
And at least I have a heart
Todd Paropacic May 2021
Sycophants and Salisbury!
What does the basket in your heart hold?
Doris Dearess,
The where has gone
And sold away the wind.
Now my little hairs
Stand cold,
And I feel older than old.
Todd Paropacic May 2021
Kool-Aid and calculated risk taking,

A brisk walk on the mild side

Has left you wanting more.

The line is breaking,

But be careful what you fish for.

There’s a knock on the door

And it’s for you,

Yeah, so it’s for you.

I remember stepping into the brine

As you tip tapped the tick tock

To keep it in line.

It was running out of rhyme and time

Was set to trickling

And tickling from inside.

Doris day and Doris night!

The stars about won’t start a fight

If you talk to them like that,

My dear.

Celestial bodies are not fans

Of blood,

And blood breeds bad seeds

That shoot at the moon

Like thieves.

The gull are shook,

Rattling frigid looks,

And the crooks are creeping

Up the hall.

Oh, Doris,

I can see them all,

And they call like crows

In a catered carrion free for all.

As the sun fades

Into its aquatic grave,

I save a test from the ******* past

And, Doris,

You have loaned stones to my

House of glass.

You’ve crashed,

And you’ve bashed,

And you’ve lashed yourself

To a mast

That you aren’t willing to steer.

In this instance,

I can still hear the bruising pier,

Cheering and jeering,

Until it believed its last.
This is part one in a ten part narrative poem. The whole thing tells the story of some unidentified incident, a nasty time in an unknown person's life. Doris may be many things. Doris may be nothing.
Salvador Kent May 2021
You were here before…
Searching for something,
Your hands fumbling from spine to spine
Inferno, Paradise Lost, Michelle Obama,
Bertolt Brecht. Glance to see a figure serving coffee,
You will amount to nothing. You or I?

Life is a series of disoriented imitations…
Strange noises slip from your throat,
Strange because… you see…
You're intelligible. Bertolt Brecht.
Something more absurdist… but no…
Sisyphus. Observe him push a boulder
Over and over… Sartre…  ****.

Why do you believe a reference
Reflects intelligence? Stupid boy,
You're a pseudo-intellectual.
Why rage against the standardisation
Of mediocrity if you yourself are
Mediocre. Why use enjambment on
Lines previous for convenience?
See the banal intolerance of your poetry?

You were here before,
Stroking spines… whatever that means…
This was about a feeling…
But even that is null.
Bertolt Brecht rots and laughs…
A small child picks fruit.
Reference to Inferno and Paradise Lost, two texts about the fall of man, and his conflict with evil.

Reference to Michelle Obama, I will not elaborate.

Reference to Brecht, theatre practitioner who emphasised detachment.

Sisyphus, used with the implication of Camus' absurdist masterwork "The Myth of Sisyphus".

Sartre, existentialist philosopher. Life is meaningless until you find your own meaning. My understanding is that Camus differs. A juxtaposition.

The passage of time is a strange thing, so is my state of mind.
Max French Feb 2021
Soft bedding shielding my body
From the axis of frigid air that thrives
Off the edge of everyone's bed.
But as always my mind is
Wrapped up in something else.

The cord attaching me to
The sail of blood and bone
Tugs deep at my ankles and legs
And moves me off, and out
Into the waking world.

And when did the world wake up,
Breathe heavy and rub yesterday's dirt
Off its dry and heavy eyes?
Lifting itself from a cold pillow
To pirouette the day away 'round the sun.

I question it only because
It feels, most days, like the planet
Is sleepwalking.
Shuffling and spewing nonsense,
Just like me.

At least I got to write this down
Before I go back to bed.
Todd Paropacic Jan 2021
If you score it like baseball,
It’s nothing,
A perfect game
For both parties,
A marathon
With no ribbon at the end.
I’ll push that rock up the mountain,
But it always rolls away.
Playing tennis with a wall
Often ends in self defeat,
But I get lost in the heat
Of competition.
I have a premonition
That I’ll break it down,
Chip by chip,
Brick by brick,
But rubber’s got nothing
On masonry.
A poem about the grind of trying out life, testing yourself against yourself, and the futility of measuring up to anyone else.
Next page