#existentialpoetry poems

Shoaib Shawon Sep 16

Sometimes I feel my insides have dried;
I am only three percent alive—yet still alive.
Three percent alive is still being alive.

I won't say I’m doing terribly;
I've been lying dead for so long.
To be clear: only three percent of me breathes—
and even that is life.

No one speaks, as if nobody’s there,
but there’s one mercy: I don't have to hide how I feel.
Everyone assumes I’m gone.
No—perhaps I’m only three percent alive;
even that is being alive.

Someone left? I don't bring them back,
I keep no watch for anyone now.
I walk the world’s circumference, far from the center.
It doesn't hurt—I'm numb, as if already dead.
Truth is: I am still alive.
Even three percent is still life.

Some days, the light inside feels like it's dimmed to a mere flicker. It's not that you're completely gone, but you're operating on a fraction of what you used to be. You feel dried out, distant, and miles away from the center of your own world.

In these moments, it's easy to believe the narrative that you've disappeared entirely. But here is the gentle, stubborn truth: even a three percent existence is still an existence.

You don't have to pretend to be at a hundred. You don't have to perform vitality for anyone. There is a strange, quiet freedom in this minimal state. No one expects much from a ghost, and that can be a relief.

So if today you are only three percent, hold onto that. It is not nothing. It is a foundation. It is the single ember from which an entire fire can be rebuilt. The fact that you are still here, feeling this hollow, means you are still here to feel something else another day.

Be kind to that three percent. It is fighting for you.

#existentialpoetry #minimallife #threepercentalive #shoibshaonpoetry #melancholyverse #emotionalsurvival #lonelyyetalive #inneremptiness #poetryofsilence #modernbanglapoetry

Odd Odyssey Poet Sep 14

The Weight of a Second

In the breath of time, I gasped a second of a dream –
to clock it all in a single second; to live off seconds,
to starve on scraps, constantly second-guessing
myself. It feels like going back, stepping into my
past – a time traveller, as much, wandering the
ruins of yesterday.

Give me a second to catch my breath; here in this
second stanza; I wear each stanza like armour–
armour stitched from broken words, to fight for
peace in armour, to piece together what’s left of
honour. Where hell meant to crush my thoughts,
I cover my head with a helmet, shielding my
mind from the fire.

And if they break my bones – I’ll pick a bone with
the breaking, laughing in the face of the fracture,
gnawing on the marrow of pain until it tastes like
defiance. Every scar another tick of the clock; every
second I stand, I steal back from the seconds that
tried to finish me.

Call me a time traveller, for I’ve learned to turn
broken seconds into futures

#poetry #spokenword #timetravel #wordplay #secondchances #healing #armor #resilience #existentialpoetry #modernpoetry

girlinflames Aug 19

First Night, No Rehearsal

Life begins mid-scene,
no script in my hands,
just a trembling voice
and the weight of the spotlight.

I stumble through lines
I never agreed to speak,
yet each word lands
as if carved in stone.

How cruel, this urgency—
to shape myself in seconds,
to wear a costume of flesh
without knowing the story.

Still, the stage keeps turning,
stars lit above my head,
and the only truth I carry:
every flaw is part of the play.

#existentialpoetry #lifeonstage #confessionalwriting #rawtruth #poetrycommunity #flawedandbeautiful

girlinflames Aug 19

The Game We Play

Your eyes say forever,
your silence says fleeting.
You chain me with your touch,
yet leave me doubting
what name to give this fever.

I would surrender—
life, body, soul—
if this were love.
But if it is only desire,
then I am nothing more
than a flame you’ll let burn out.

Still, I stay,
hoping you’ll call it love.

#toxicromance #confessionalwriting #existentialpoetry #longingheart #poetryofdesire #rawemotions

Khushi Aug 17

Life ***** ?

Giggle, giggle—swallow beans,
Wash the dishes, clean the bins.
Mutton, fish, curry, and beef,
Taunts, sarcasm, dreams but grief.

Sush! The sound above decibels,
Buzz and roar—what about tinnitus?
Free, independent, no fear of inclusion,
No one to assess—but what about seclusion?

Sadly rich, with burger and fries,
Oh, nobody to deal with—sighs!
And there comes Peppa Pig and Panther,
All by myself to deal with tamper.

End of the day holds no meaning,
Reality, delusion, facts, and healing

This poem blends the mundane with the surreal—chores, food, noise, and cartoons collide with deeper reflections on loneliness, freedom, and the thin line between reality and delusion. It’s both playful and heavy, showing how humor and grief coexist in everyday life.

#existentialpoetry #darkhumor #isolation #streamofconsciousness #surrealpoetry #realityanddelusion

Odd Odyssey Poet Aug 3

The Half-Empty Truth

For that which I don’t know— built from
the bones of all the words I never spoke.
My life, if summarized, could be a quote:
a borrowed line, or a borrowed joke.
Either footnoted in memory, or discarded
as someone who misquoted hope
___________
Perhaps I’d trade in an error
for a single, shapeshifting era.
But funny how the past echoes loudest
in silence, and how legends live on not
in flesh, but in the offspring of their legacy.

Still— be careful not to jump to conclusions.
Don’t cut off your spring just because
you mistook the thaw for drowning.
And don’t become so quick to sip judgment
that you forget: a half-empty drink
can still quench the right thirst, depending
on who's pouring… and who's parched.
____________
Now there are those who offer their offending
speech like confetti; those whose presence is a
soft kind of peace; a balm, a breath, a quiet release.
Then there are others whose only offering is grief
once a week, wearing Sunday suits but speaking in leaks.

I have grown to value those who live
like arrows— honest, piercing, straightforward.
Not those who bend truth into shapes that fit
their spin, sending stories spinning on a tired wheel,
toward destinations they never meant to reach.
____________
Some speak on others' names with
the boldness of ownership, but it’s all
counterfeit— a forged will, a stamped conviction.

As for me? For that which I don’t know:
it remains a wonder, and I live in awe of it.
But as for some, with their tongue dipped
in certainty; your armour is made of knowing—
but you truly know nothing at all.

#introspectivepoetry #wordplay #legacyandtruth #poetryofthought #metaphoricalverse #existentialpoetry #creativereflection #modernphilosophy #truthandperception #shapeshiftingnarrative

Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 26

Life is a Wonder

Life is a wonder —no wonder I still wonder
how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it —
not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape
you forge from struggle and grace.

We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day,
it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day
arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate —
know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit
into every heart.

To love in part means sometimes we must depart —
leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe.
The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where
meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover
might be the very hope that led you astray.

We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest
in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny,
and fire never forgets what it once warmed.
Life is a wonder — in both a good and bad way.
And maybe that’s enough.

#spokenword #modernpoetry #lifeanddeath #hopethroughhardship #faithandreflection #wordplaypoetry #metaphoricalwriting #existentialpoetry #ashesandstars #selfmadejourney

Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 24

Applause for the Devil

God smiles. The devil always laughs— in a world where one
man can be a hero to all, but never a hero to themselves. But life
is life, and that’s something we all have to live. Growing ****
for hands, doing your best to explain all of life’s noisy jazz.
Improvising grace with filthy tools, sculpting silence from
the din. Finding gains from feeding peas to peace— small
offerings to vast ideals. But we’re all just boiling in the ***,
seasoned with hope, too numb to scream it all out.

Guess I’ll be filming a field of angels, watching them grow
into a movie I’ll never get to see. Faith on reel, a fate unreleased.
Goodness is easier when it’s clinical; cut, clean, and color-coded.
But look too closely, and even virtue starts to rot under the
microscope. But good to know most prefer playing doctor
to ever being a patient— yet none of them have the patience.
It's just one's self-diagnosis without much reflection.

Guaranteed: casual racists smiling their remarks so sweetly
that even the laughter sounds like applause. But I less applaud
for I’m more appalled – but we all live in a world.

#existentialpoetry #cynicalhope #spokenwordvibes #poetrywithteeth #wittybutwounded

Emirhan Nakaş Jul 12

Your World Is Eternally Complete

Your world is eternally complete.
You don't need to change a thing.
Your existence is already gem concrete.
A divine white hole gives off rays and transmits an unfamiliar being.

A seed that blooms into a drop of water,
A destiny, ready to be changed by the sky god.
Sprouts gushing everywhere, born from the mud.
A mother has seen it all, asks for protection against this creation, odd.

Shadows dressed as sparkling beams float around,
Befooling the pure, hoping to capture the crown.
Words as soft as pongee, elevating the snake from its hole, deep down,
Spreading the decay, now it is dead on the lawn.

The outer layer finally cracks open after forever.
Has been thousands of years, now its job is to be the cycle breaker.
Such a miraculous blessing of nature, to be no wiser:
Oh to possess a soul too serene to comprehend the tempter.

A photon is destined to proceed forwards,
One's mission only to exist for creating radiance.
Scarcely, only for a moment, for a soul sky god has its eyes over, one particle jumps backwards,
Creating another realm where signs from the future comes down to past as divine messages.

Uneasy senses overflowing from the intuition,
For those who cannot see, it is just an illusion.
One must not question sky god's compassion,
Sending signs even for those blinded by realm of skeletons.

#poetry #poetrycommunity #spiritualpoetry #existentialpoetry #creativewriting #modern #mythinspired #abstract #yourworldiseternallycomplete #karmic

Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 11

What’s That About?

Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?

#timeandexistence #loveandloss #hopelessromantic #modernmelancholy #innerconflict #dropoutlover #existentialpoetry #wordplay #emotionalresilience #philosophicalthoughts