Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Episteme
Contingency
Emperical Premise
Take a day to live in
Essential State Locus
of Self,
I being
I thinking you must be
for me
to think
of giving you
a piece
of my mind, thinking out being

existing, ist, nicht wahr, amness

I am as ware as any that wars
have never made things better,
Armegeddon fought by volunteers,

shall not be the final solution haters hope.

if this line exists, then you
have existence, here, and now,
in my past and your present, per

haps in process
of happening,
let using letting, let us presume
truth is discernible taken as being,

what is, is true, what isn't, isn't
truly imaginable
in and of itself,
having no being manifestly true.

Where as it has been said,
a word to the wise is enough.
AI amusement, imagining today from long ago, Watching Steve Jobs, manifest.
We live in 1984's better future, and it is rotting... as all old knowledge trees must.
🔱
WITH THE WORDS SHE WROTE
PASSIONATELY WITH HER PEN
YOU CAN FEEL THE INK
CRAWL UPON YOUR SOUL

HER CREATIVE YET HARD LIFE
BLESSED US WITH HER POEMS
SHE IS WHAT SPIRIT CALLS LIFE

PAIN STRIFE LOVE ABUSED
SHE WILL NOT FALL DOWN
WITH THE STROKES OF THE INK
ITS WRITTEN HER PERSONALLY

LET MY WORDS CONSUME YOU
OPEN YOUR MIND BE NOT AFRAID
DARE TO BE THERE WITH ME

FIND THE PLEASURE
IN POEMS WRITTEN
NAUGHTY & SO DELICIOUS

READ THE STRUGGLES
TOUGH DAYS LONELY NIGHTS
LONGING TO BE LOVED
NEEDING TO BE HEARD

SURVIVING ON THE STROKES
OF MY HAND ONTO PAPER
IS THIS HOW IT ENDS
WRITING IN INK
THE RHYTHM OF MY LIFE
WORDS JUST WORDS WRITTEN

©🇯ENNIFER DELONG ♬✘↯
My poetry my writings are how I get through life. Poetry and music and being a artist is where I feel at peace and my passion is consumed
ImosyrroS Oct 23
They came like an open book with a beautiful cover,

yet my insecurities still whispered for judgement.
                                                      ­                   ~ImoS
One of the many weaknesses.....
Sophie Oct 15
Our of nowhere, invisible hands grab me.
Fingers sharpened to tiny needles stabbing me all over.
Internal bleeding I beg could finish me off.
My lungs burn for life,
but I burn for limited air supply.
My legs itch to run,
but I know better than to try again.
****** footsteps leave traces
for the invisible hands to find me again.
Your side untouched for what felt like eternity
Written 3-8-21
newborn Oct 2023
dusty window sills; my innocence lost
desert inhabitable leaves no cause.
lifeboats left in the middle of ocean;
salt-licked bony ribs rapid in motion.
pretending so that life seems easier.
undecided, seventeen, pleasing her.
a bleak room haunted by sunken ghost ships
autumn leaves in gutters; i still lose it.
rivers dried up, lake evaporated.
plain truth on my tongue, i just can’t say it.
yet underneath there is a tiny ember;
flesh of hope, flash of what i remember.
from the vessel, i catch glimpse of dry land.
pulling the bow upon the shore, i can.
kind of a sonnet or whatever, not really. i’m bad at writing poetry anymore. searows inspired the rest of this poem. guard dog.

started writing: 10/15/23
published: 10/22/23
A M Ryder Aug 2023
I started isolating
Myself, used to
Say everything
I was feeling
But then I guess
I just stopped
I wanted them to
Love me for who
They thought
I was
And not who I felt
Myself becoming

Ever think about
How horrified the
People we loved
Would be if they
Found out who
We really are?
So we dig deeper
Into our lies everyday
Ultimately hurting
The only
People who
Are brave enough
To love us
Wish I was
Brave enough to
Love them back

We don't have
As much time
As we think
The sky descended its sapphire pearls from its embellished chalice. The pearls decorated my lonesome face, I stared upwards into the grey heavens of solemnity. I was searching for answers.

I felt nothing as the water rolled off my fingertips, those precious jewels crashed the surface of the decrepit earth. This feeling I so longed for, so begged for, so sought.

Empty like a vessel, I stood and soaked the frequency in, seconds that felt like days, time stopped, it stopped for me. Maybe for once in my life I was in control, this was it.

No pain, no sorrow, I was free. In that moment I bathed. Bathed in the past, as my future filled my lungs, I was drowning in truth.

Baptized from suffering, I was rooted, longing for the gods to purify me. I am a mere spec in the vast void, existing, while life just moves on.  

I couldn’t fathom moving on, what good could that bring if nothing in life was guaranteed.

And just like that, the fear crept back in again, and I found myself, back in hell.
Happiness comes at a price, happiness is temporary.
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2022
Have you ever considered that if someone is lost, they were once good?
Have you ever wondered if clouds were mists and what raindrops are if rain exists?
It was these nonsensical questions you always find common to believe in,
like when you talk about metaphors, you always think of "rain."

But the moon figured out it was to give comfort to people who truly needed it at this time.
It was unbearable for some, but for you, dear?
For once, it was almost as if you were being embraced by the platonic moon, who once favored the good, and for once, it never happened again.

The wind is metaphorically a duvet, comforting, warm, and private, innocent and cold.
When the wind whistles and calls for the sky, the sky turns akin to one’s warmth of soft lilted voice and embraces the skin of once lost, a phrase everyone uses in things they find wondrous.

But have you ever wondered if the moon has figured out if he is also one of the good?
If he did, then why did he brush off the earth?
He went far away, visible to the naked eye—and never to be reached.

He left the Creator's dearest one, and everyone gets lonely at night, trying to understand why they grew fond of him—but he never once went down to embrace his own kin, yet he left a half of his own, so he could die when the sun arose from his seat, and he could rest until it was his turn to look over for people who needed his company, even if it was only for a few hours.

He knew it got sad at night, and by this time he, for once, favored the good and never to be seen again but felt.
I always love writing about the moon.
Next page