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To feel lost in time is like waking up to nothingness

Numbness and pain fighting for dominance

Being awake but wishing for sleep

Life and death merging into one

Finding yourself being ripped in half but a thread holding the pieces together

Not knowing how to continue and yet walking forwards anyways

Wanting to disappear and yet still existing
Lela May 31
I just feel dizy
Where all the time go
Nothing is logical and I've lot the sense of purpose
And even though
I'm still a human
My body makes me feel like I'm just a reject
Reject of stars
Reject of life
Nothing  is logical and I've lost the sense of purpose
My body's flying
But I stay put down
Is this really the end of my existance?
Who even are we?
Zoe Rain Feb 2020
I pinch myself to the point of drawing blood and still remain unconvinced that this is not a dream. I wonder if you are also skeptical. Proof exists in all states and it is up to the observer to choose that which they believe is real. There is no wrong answer, every dream is real. Take the path of most appeal, not the one of least resistance.
Zoe Rain Feb 2020
Here it comes, another downward spiral into existential dread and the meager meaning of life. I don't know what emotions feel like anymore. Strip myself down to the core and blast that into ******* oblivion. You wouldn't even know. Look deeper. Look deeper. Look deeper. There's nothing there! ******* and your conniving business partners! Instilling false hope in the minds of people who really just need to be chucked out on their *****, into the dead of night, onto the cold hard ground of true reality. And all the while you're expecting payment.
Zoe Rain Feb 2020
The pulsating loneliness of reality in the flesh haunts me like the ghosts of my other selves.
Who am I in this moment and how will I choose to show it?
The constant motion of life paves the way to a grasping of something more.
Fleeting emptiness is always shattered by a falling leaf.
How can I sit here and not be effected by the push and pull of humanities breath?
How to be stoic when I am but a cloud of dust on the open plains?
The instant you choose to bare all in transparency, you find out there is nothing there.
Now to live with that as if everything were fine.
Walk the long road to your current location and be disappointed when its not what you expected it to be.
Hold us down with flesh and blood till it rots away and takes with it your sense of identity.
Embrace myself as the stagnating pool of emotions that I am, and ***** the symbols of sounds I hear in my head, into existence on a creased piece of paper.
Zoe Rain Feb 2020
You can not have nature without art, the very essence of nature is creativity, everything created is art.
The art of nature is everywhere.
Every form is an expression of creativity, every flower, every rock, every animal is a piece of art.
We live in an ever changing, evolving, art gallery.
And we humans are as much a part of it as any form.
How can we possibly think we are separate from this?
Why would we be the only thing in the entire existence of life that isn't connected to the whole?
Don't flatter yourself.
YY Jan 2020
In time, we timelessly live in,
One pause, one move, breathe out and in.
Time out will turn itself into continuation -
Does time exists? Or is it our own novation?

Through time we count with past our future.
A second’s, moment’s, minute’s suture
Turns time of day enlightened light
Into a darkness' time engulfing fight.

Time walks in clocks, circles around
And silently steal years of dawn.
Outside of universe, where truth all lies -
I timelessly revise.
J J Oct 2019
Trying to catch a slice of thought process;
Like capturing lightening in a jar
            Only to smell it's exhumes.

It's a blessed freedom, to release
  an experience; an imitation of the world,
or an imitation of how others wrote and expressed
    the world, and at constant conflict to lose it's voice.

It can be enjoyably difficult (the best hobbies
    usually are) or flow smooth as blood thru vein.
   Pulling blood from a stone and unexpectedly
    heaving rainbowy rainwater can be it's own virtue--

    An idea caught half undeveloped
Only to shed cocoon to join the white blankness
And forever tarnish it's history--

A gorgeous priveledge in it's constricted freedom
(As is existence,although we're too modest to admit it)

Writing is a piece of you and you belong to the human race,
and doubleedged a sword as that certitude is,
Writing is a piece of us left to the world.
Writing is forever
Tom Oct 2019
There is but one thing,
That all humans fear,

Yet nothing we do,
Slows dreaded advance.  

Yes, death is the end,
No comfort in that,

But life is therefore,
More precious, more pure.

For us that will die,
Are luckier still,

Infinite lives lost,
Never to be lived.

That we do exist,
Is reward enough,

And better is now,
Than all time before.

Our time here will soon,
Come to darkest end,

And yet before then,
Life still has its time.
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