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You undergo experience
You create experience
What's  right?
What's  wrong?
Albert Camus
Nobel laureate
At forty four young
The Stranger
The plague
You were great
No ordinary mortal
This man of literature
Monkeys vote for monkeys
Donkeys may too
Vote for monkeys
Lopsided vision
I ascribe
You cannot create experience
You must undergo it
If Albert Camus subscribed
I am here
To make it right
Experience is created
Experience is undergone
What's the use
Undergo an experience
If it's not created in your mind
You daily undergo experience
Observing, acting, interfering, acted upon
Learning, imbibing
You create experience
So experience is undergone
So experience is created
Albert Camus was wrong
Sorry, if I said it wrong!
Albert Camus was a French philosopher, a Nobel laureate. The quote: " You cannot create experience. You must undergo it.
In this poem, I have put forward my point of view. May be Albert Camus said this quote from some other point of view.
PS: If Albert Camus means, we are subjected to experience over which we have no control, no free will, then it's fatalism. We wilfully do so many things, interact with Nature, society, observe physical and mental phenomena and have experience.
Divine masculine
Divine faminine
Both traits in one
One dominant
One recessive
Male figure, divine masculine
Male father
Male figure, divine faminine
Male mother
Single parent I am
Today I am father
On this father's day
I shall be male mother
On mother's day!
Both masculine and feminine traits are present in an individual. Your gender is decided not by your genitalia but the traits which are dominant. Balancing both the traits makes you a good parent, a good human.
sundial iris Jul 2020
هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently

let us not ask each other or god

the why, just how life worked out

and maybe by a choice unconfessed


yet we both lie.


you possess thousands of offspring,

tend to their every need, breast feed

them water, special nutrients, stroking

their leaves, worry about their viruses,

you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted

looks up and says, “I am dying mother,

thank you for your love.”


my ***** produced two men,

each now, differentially,

lost, lost to me, and daily

privately, in word and wet,

weep my losses, for what

is a man who had children,

but goes down into his grave

gray haired, with none in

attendance to refill the soil

that his grave grayed body

requires to

hide his wasted,


Poetic T Feb 2020
She was neve going to be in white,
              neutrality was never

going to be her hue.

She was telling the world a message..

Her gown, was onyx silk woven
                 like Cinderella had told the
arachnids  to create beauty in the night
            it fell entrapping on any who gazed

upon its woven radiance.

She walked down the isle and with each step,
                                at least five were captivated

in the webbing of her beauty,
                       walking beyond there view.

All entombed within the elegance
             that captured them.

She was the spider weaving a web of beauty
           that captured every eye.

And the man was her prey, he smiled
          lost in the moment of her captivation.

I do, I do,  and both were entangled
within the
                             eyes of each.

This moment was silk ropes tied to each others
         and now they'll weave them every step

                          they collect together.
sunshine Nov 2019
she smells like the way rain feels
when it spills across the windshield
driving back home in the middle of
that fight you had back with him and
now you're crying in the club because
nothing ever felt this good before so
you remember the way his lips taste
like honey brown sugar-coated with lies
and everything comes crashing back down
when the rain starts falling again and
then you're sitting on the sidewalk just
wondering when the pain will all go away
she told me to hold it back
he told me to back it up
so I turned around and ****** em

"He's either a madman or a poet."

"Can't I be both?"

"You already are."
Late night conversations are weird yee yee
annh Feb 2019
Ah - the weekend!
Time to open my emotional closet,
Have a good rummage around,
And find something we both can wear.
‘Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.’
- Robert Frost
Shutterr Aug 2019
When can I feel like the victim
And only the victim
I can't be a victim and victimzer
At the same time
It sends me into a spiral
Of only accepting what you say
Is the truth
Smiling Queen Jul 2019
Both of us were silent,
But our eyes were still speaking.
Lovers talk through their eyes.
Poetic T Jun 2019
Woeful of the memories,
              was I to blame!

Could I have changed that moment?

When he walked out of our timeline.

Altered futures of what would have been
                 happy moments.

   But he was vacant like a parked car paying
                         for a spot never ever filled.
Still we waited on the clock before the pennies
                           ran out and then...

Tickets of denial, that he was there for us..
    he threw pennies at the lap of our mother.

She cried inside ever strong...

We were young of innocence, thinking he was
      there for us. But she was the guild that
                   caressed every fall,
                          every awkward question.

Denial was a strong venture for boys,
     that  thought the sun shone brightly.

In reality it was like the northern hemisphere
                   frozen for a time then thawed.

In reality, there was an absence of reconciliation.
        daydreaming of perfection.  
                                                   ­  never realising...
That one took the personification of both.
             And we gazed upon her as a not worthy.

But she brought us up in the wordless motion,
         of abandonment, not wanting us to see the reality..

That our Dad was as worthless as the pennies he
         threw in discord,
                                                 thinking that the copper
stepping stones were of worth to feed  and put cloth on us.

She was the one that played the part of both.
      gone is her words of wisdom..

But still her learning lives on..

                   We love you mother & Dad..

But realistically   she was both, and when she passed..

          She wasn't  a loss of a singular person but
                   one that filled the footsteps of both..

Mum we miss you... every one that wasn't filled
      not one footstep,
                           but one that filled both.
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