Existence, consciousness ..

who are we and what do we do ..
A puff out .. a drag of cold air, racing .. racing .. head full of existential thoughts  . ..
Living, a wine glass .. a shot of warmth down my throat  . . Emotions these running flow of consciousness .. why do I think it all ?

Lying, in the dark .. an athem of sort, in silence reforms .. ideas and lack of them .. and thoughts, a void is born !

Internalising emotions .. finding my thoughts so alive in this darkness  ..
Hurriedly may I pass away to a lack of form ..

Insanity .. beckons me .. and what more can I do but nod .. meaning, I seek meaning. And not an iota of cognition is ever got.

Tired, I am tired of life as I know it, the bones ache, the thoughts become nonsensical and we deliver as we are meant to .. not very sure, not very sound .. in the air . . drifting slowly, and surely .. towards an end.

What is this eternal rack of hell that we are accustomed to... What is this longing for something that has passed us far by .. who am I even, floating aimless .. who are we, under our skin tight hides.

Disaster in the waiting, a last beacon calls to the inward eye .. and I see, albeit shrouded in dark .. nothing. Alas, no meaning.. an absurd, surreal delusion called Life.

I have always felt so small ..
A ignoble blob of mass produced ****
An unstriking felt of ignoreable mass
And a unloving yet existing demonicon

What is this being that within me resides
This parenchymatous growth of emotions
This feeling, perceiving but never believing
Mass of substance that I am, that I may be
Or may be not.

Just a small nothingness of some being
Incapable of making it out intoto

Small, meek, not dangerous piece of nothing.

What shall it matter if I lose my form?

What shall it matter if I lose myself ?

Death, disintegration, entropy !!

Whichever word may you give it,
nothing does ever matter in the end
nothing ever comes right off it ..

Nothing, and then black.

Pitch. Dark. Bleakness.

a man scratches the
remains in the pan
the metal spoon and
its touch makes the
pan beg for mercy and
the man for more

"may men move mansions
in the magic of their mistresses"
a song plays in the background

a canvas waits for him to stop and
start smudging

a woman across
the street in her balcony
leaves the last two
drags of her cigarette
and fills the water in
the ashtray to extinguish
the smolder
incensed,
goes back into the walls

there's no one to
caress the moon tonight
and the cats gonna weep till
the sun wakes up the dogs

then the man washes the pan
and as soon as the pan dries up completely,
hunger stealths in again
like a sad mouse to a broken trap

the woman got goosebumps
and she closes her window
thinking that it was because
of the winter breeze outside

A swerve and crumple

the too-low Miata meeting
the steel of a
semi's rear.

top speed impatience
becomes

a mangled massacre
of twisted plastic and metal.

Bone just powder in
a pillow of pink
red-streaked
pulverized flesh.

my jaw agape as I pass too slow-

existential dread is the hand
contorted upward
a few fingers missing
or lost in the mass-

A horn brings me back.
People too late
to care.

I contemplate stopping
but I'm late too-
and there's nothing to salvage
for me here.

Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******,
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.

(tw; existentialism)

I am intimidated by you,
though perhaps it is not you that I am intimidated by,
but simply that time seems to fly
faster than I am capable of falling in stride.
The universe is infinite
but my existence is the opposite,
limited,
and I am terrified to die.