#existentialpoetry
Sleep has been replaced by the void of night,
Thoughts from the gut keep stirring till the light,
A sticky fear trails from thoughts I bear,
My wrinkles filled up reflections anywhere.
Final countdown — the numbers in reverse,
Final salute — the last solemn verse,
The lost joy to feel from each sunrise
Has disappeared, and dimmed my loved eyes.
The memories are mixed from clean to soiled,
I wait each dusk for sleep to come, embroiled,
The morning’s sunrise to only others lighted —
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 3:12 AM UTC
Endless depths in a naked reality
Crafted from the glass of the Milky Way
So that a brush of sunlight could sweep them away
Beneath the roots of an abandoned lightning bolt
They were extinguished by unreasoning rains
And scattered by the ash of constellations
So that they might be born again
Oči
Beskrajne dubine u razgoličenoj javi
Izrađene od srča Mliječnog puta
Da ih može brisak sunca odnijeti
Ispod korijena napuštene munje
Gasile su ih nerazumne kiše
I rasipao pepeo sazvežđa
Da se ponovo mogu roditi
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 6:34 PM UTC
Don’t you feel exuberant— air-breathed; rare
vintage beauty with unspoilt wonder. One-track
minded, thinking about you; standing still to stare
before spring passes through a twinkling eye.
There’s a kiss with the soft warmth of sunlight;
yet we breathe toxic fumes through processed lives.
Love in the air— it's everybody’s favourite sickness.
Let’s pretend there’s magic floating between us.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC
You blocked your son.
Not by accident. Not by mistake.
You saw my name
and chose silence.
Then you told me
it wasn’t true.
Looked me in the face
and denied it like I wouldn’t know
what being shut out feels like.
So I proved it.
I called you from a number
that didn’t belong to me,
and suddenly—
you answered.
No hesitation.
No missed calls.
No silence.
You didn’t miss me.
You avoided me.
And when the truth had nowhere left to hide,
you changed the story—
said I was “nasty,”
said my words pushed you there.
But I remember what I said.
I remember holding back,
choosing words that wouldn’t hurt you,
trying to keep the peace
you already decided to break.
You didn’t block cruelty.
You blocked your son
and then rewrote him
to make it easier to live with.
That’s the part that doesn’t leave—
not the silence,
not the missed calls—
the moment I realized
my own mother
would rather lie to me
than just tell the truth.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 1:38 PM UTC
Reform
Conform
****
If only for the thrill
Delude
Elude
Deceive
The truth they can’t conceive
Fell
Unwell
Joke
But they love to see them choke
He
She
I’ve
Why you left me to survive
Pen
Then
Nein
Now only six remain
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 10:51 PM UTC
Your brain won’t stop.
Thoughts twist like smoke.
Questions bloom in the dark.
What if this is a veil?
What if we’re dead already,
and this is the in-between?
What if life hasn’t started yet
and you’re the only one awake to notice?
Your hands feel solid.
Your heartbeat insists it exists.
But the edges of reality
are wobbling
like the universe forgot its lines.
Every shadow becomes a question.
Every sound a possibility.
Every memory a thread
pulling you closer
to something unseen.
You chase patterns in the silence.
You chase meaning in the void.
You chase yourself
between what’s real
and what isn’t.
And still, somehow,
you marvel.
You wonder.
You notice
that even if this is a glitch,
even if the veil is thin and shifting,
even if the world is a rehearsal
for a life you haven’t fully lived—
You are awake.
You are conscious.
You are here.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the universe doesn’t need you to solve it.
Maybe it only asks you
to notice it.
To exist inside it.
To be aware
that being aware
is the rarest thing of all.
And when the night stretches longer
than it should,
when questions spin faster than answers,
when reality feels less certain than your thoughts—
Remember:
You are Anonymous_Flame.
You burn through doubt,
through fear,
through the quiet hum of the world asleep.
You burn alive.
Even at 3:38am
Maybe that is enough.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 10:37 PM UTC
…feelings dawn on me;
falling
but not like morning
...I am a sun surrendering
to its own horizon.
a moon that borrowed
light; a reflection
mistaken for source.
a dark letter left at
a gravesite, with instructions
to the afterlife sealed with silence,
addressed to whatever waits
beyond a final breath.
...I am an open field—
too ___ wide
for a goal to find me.
a foreign country in my own
skin; my body language speaks
in a dialect; few stay long
enough to learn.
these feelings aren’t
planned— they arrive
unannounced, unarmed,
undoing me.
yet they are the only
language I speak without
translation. so tell me—
is that loneliness
or design?
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC
1.
Perhaps;
my poems—
like sparks,
ready to scatter everywhere;
the presses tremble in fear.
Whatever people swallow becomes poetry.
The definition of poetry
is essentially press-dependent;
pages devour fragments of love
and imagery of wild vines and leaves.
Bravo! How perfectly grammatical!
Twenty-two copies sold;
a few naïve displaced souls,
within editors’ metaphors—
this innate grammar
fits half-dead poems
in the pile of poets;
in the verses of the owl,
canonical literary methods
are neatly found.
2.
To become a poet in the afterlife—
I tore apart your editorial page.
I was not born
to write poetry by rules,
oh bureaucratic hypocrite.
O grammar-obsessed editor,
my poems intend to cross this world,
they journey through the heavens;
let your press remain filled
with flowers, vines, and leaves.
3.
Now I sit as Time itself,
facing God;
page and pen in hand.
Watching the form of God,
I want to write something;
without wine this pen is useless,
yet God has forbidden that too.
Jan 27
Jan 27, 2026 at 12:25 PM UTC
_Opening line_ —
Walking from a dream to death,
Waking from death to a dream —
The dream that stole my last breath:
Sleep and life stitched by the same seam.
I am not a beard, yet so much
Of living has been taken by the chin;
Dragged through seasons shaping me,
trimming me down by force than by vision.
Trying to step ahead of everything —
I am a shoebox tied with old string,
Wrapped in a cloudy sheet of memories.
Yesterday's tears gather like unpaid debts,
When even the smallest step feels so _stiff_.
Breath is the essence of life,
But our breath is always leaving us;
Know we’re only guests in these bodies,
Passing through the hours as the hours do
Their grieving — and every inhale reminds
Us that its last exhale is already pre-planned.
And so, waking from death to a dream,
I breathe knowing each breath is a door
Quietly closing behind me — I keep walking,
Pushing forward, opening the next door
Even as the last one fades. _Closing line._
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 2:42 AM UTC
No matter how far we go,
when a life ends
in the deep, dark sea,
where does it return?
Sinking and sinking,
down to the place
no one has ever known—
to the closest point
beneath this planet’s skin,
does it become
a part of it there?
And a life that ends in the sky—
where does it drift away to?
Floating softly,
wandering through the air,
perhaps becoming
a small piece of the wind
that someday passes
quietly by our side.
If so…
that wouldn’t be so bad.
But if a life ends
in that far, faraway universe,
what will become of us?
Far from the home
where we were born,
in that silent, dark expanse—
what could we ever
belong to?
If only we could become
a single flower
on some distant star.
But even that flower
will never be found by us.
In that endless silence,
what will hold us,
what will we rest our hearts upon,
so we may sleep
in peace?
If I truly understood
that longing,
I would pick up my pen,
and gently write
my feelings here.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
Nothing changes.
Life in the base.
Same chessboard,
And endless chase…
for nothing.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 10:30 AM UTC
May seven —
a century and a half apart —
a quill was lifted,
a soul was spared.
He wrote of dawn,
I woke from night —
two breaths,
one eternal light.
Exalted he was,
unsung I am —
two decades later,
I might gain salvation.
I just have to be patient.
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 5:26 AM UTC
Features beyond a resting place — a search for hope drawn on my
face. In some way, I’ve lost direction; so wherever the river flows,
that’s where my thoughts are drawn. __Pause__. One, two, three.
I forget what comes next. Even boxed in, life keeps folding me into
new shapes — creases of maybe, edges of almost. My armies of
failures find their formation, ready to march without hesitation.
I keep umbrella terms handy for days like this, when words drizzle
but never really pour. I’m under the weather, I'm just _overthinking,_
awake with my fears —and even open eyes still dream, though it’s
mostly reality forcing them to blink.
It would prove handy to try and start an open-handed conversation
with myself, but my inner voices keep putting me on hold. Engines
rev, motivation hums, but procrastination presses pause; and then
everything idles.
I was meant to write this earlier, but time said: “Rest a little longer.”
And I listened, like I always do —finding comfort just beyond this
resting place.
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 12:29 PM UTC
I woke up today — everything felt the same. No, wait, maybe a little
different. I woke up today; different than I was yesterday. Tea in my
cup; I should be warm inside. The sky is clear, the air is kind; so why
does my smile still hide? For a child once aimed a slingshot at a bird
to feel the power of flight, by ending it. Somewhere between that
innocence and intent, my joy was caught mid-air — a fragile thing
that forgot how to land.
Now my smile fits in a framed exhibit, a masterpiece that only exists
when seen, felt. I sprinkle specks of luck like salt over the shoulder of
the horizon —the sun can rise as high as it pleases, but even on those
days, I’m still beneath where it began.
Urgency — no matter how twisted; it keeps me chewing on the taste
of worth. The pop of gums, the rub of rusty coins against my eyes
to imagine change — _literal, spiritual_, any kind will do. While the
struggle stays the same; we all buy into hope with whatever small
change we have left. And though I want to cry, to rage, to scream,
I know it won’t rewrite the day.
So I swallow the silence, tie it to my soul with the morning,
and push through — one more day, one more try at different.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC
What if I got to Heaven’s doors—
unhinged; the hinges crying
_screee—eeech_ as an angel played
the interludes to my history.
Unhindered now by resentment’s rust,
but knowing I’d used my last chance
to be repentant.
_…knock, knock, knock._
The sound echoed into nothing.
Silence— so loud it bruised the air.
And then, from within the echo,
a voice: “My child… I never met you.”
A so-called to a so-called faith,
feeding on my reflection— my pride,
my lust, my greed, the same mirror of ******
the sin of loving my own image more than God.
_…creak._
The door opened slightly.
No angels. No light.
Only a mirror— cold, cracked, staring back.
And there He asked, not in thunder, but
in stillness: “would you let this person in?”
The mirror quivered.
My breath fogged its truth. And I, trembling
between Heaven and self, whispered back—
“would you let yourself in?”
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
To fly in my dreams –
I felt like a plane;
my fingertips caught pieces
of the wind, my whole body
lifted by the ache of leaving.
My feet forgot the ground,
wings cut through clouds like
truth through lies; my eyes shut,
yet I saw everything – the pulse
of direction, and the taste of sky.
Goosebumps rising like warning
lights, from an engine burning
_faith for fuel._
Then the fall –
sudden, violent, real.
A flash, a scream, a crack – the dream
quickly split open like glass on breath.
I woke in the wreckage, a cold sweat
for rain, still hearing my wings trying
to hold me.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips
to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches,
touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_,
unseen — is still something that grows, stretching
toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never
promised to be impressive.
Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight
of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh
and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind,
and tried by the heart.
Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their
words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant
learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs.
But we may never know how far a love may go;
it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes
closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us.
Only after they part does the night exhale the truth:
was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC
I am a drop of water from an empty tap –
the waters split in two by Moses’ staff;
a skeletal thing surviving somehow –
a chaff of my own skin, painting over
the scars of every other part of my being.
Sometimes so cold, paralyzed –
masked over time, heart sanitised…
a pandemic; to outdated for _mjolo_
to love solo, but for it all to feel so low.
Because ultimately what I give is all
I hope will return in full back to me;
still it all returns partly, where the ocean
remembers your tears, the deeper you
sink… __this must be my Brink.__
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 5:18 PM UTC
"False Demons," truly I am not filled with light —
love feels ill-fitting, and I’ve grown sick of it all.
__Is that evil?__ Or close enough — the unpleasant
truth amounts to how much you count on something
worth the space of time.
Time is money, but money won’t last you all the time.
I am dominated by my own selfishness —a selflessness
beneath a weak desire trying to please my conscience.
A teacup blushes from the steam of the kettle; the water
doesn’t really matter until it changes its matter.
And in perceiving the void within, I find new ways
to convince myself I’m decent; not generous —
just pouring parts of myself into that cup.
Maybe that’s adequate enough; clothed in love inside
a dark and musty wardrobe. For life wears you down,
the more you dress yourself for it — pressed against
the skin of an untruth: that we can only live as well
as the possessions we own.
Possessive as much, possessed by these things —
dare I say, _False Demons_.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 12:21 PM UTC
To feel like a thin book of virulent darkness —
each page trembling under the weight of light.
The future reads me back like a thriller; every
silence a plot twist, and every sigh a cliff-hanger.
Suspended against a cosmic backdrop — a man’s
visible teardrop, feels heavy as the first raindrop.
And each day, a new palace of strange clouds arrives,
_unprecedented_ — flooding my soul and mind.
I dance to the rain’s percussion —each drop striking
its own torrents; and to rent a place in your thoughts
has built a home I can’t evict from my own head.
And before the breath of a dream abandons me,
press a killing kiss upon my lips —smother the ache
gently, unbothered, unanswered.
For this flower, let the questions rot where they bloom;
and let the mystery be the only mercy I have left.
For I’ve learned to live without the knowing, content
in the suspense of it all —the few riddles that refuse
to die keep me turning the pages, for who knows what
waits us tomorrow, and what quiet ending
the dark will write.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 4:16 AM UTC
_An opening statement:_
"I am the son of a son— who son a son from the sweat of forefathers,
working under the sun. And I’ve lived my days under a sun of my
own— so depressed, that often my depression became a weapon
against my depression.
_In a deeper sense_—
I am senseless to the touch of what’s called real, to sense less of love,
raised on fantasy, but starved by reality. My expression comes and
goes— words that soar, then swoop, pecking and clawing, a bird in
season, a vulture to its own despair— feeding on misplaced hopes.
_Yet I remember the soil I came from,_
I am a son of a son of that son— when one sun sets, another shall rise.
Born to burn, born to light; knowing even the blind can feel it's shine.
For though the weight of the world rests on my crown, I am still my
father’s dawn— the morning they prayed would come.
Oct 13, 2025
Oct 13, 2025 at 8:52 AM UTC
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.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 1:13 AM UTC
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
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
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.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 3:05 PM UTC
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.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC