"existentialist" poems
Today for the first time in quite awhile,
upon my face grew a genuine smile.
It wasn't fabricated, it was honest and true
and when reality hit me I was left feeling blue.
I was so surprised, it was hard to even speak.
How long had it been? A month or a week?
My smile had faded as quickly as it grew,
but I know it'll be back the next time I think of you.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Let these words
Be an extension
Of my soul
Because I'm over committed
To Being
An Existentialist
And my existence
Is far beyond
Just existing
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Everybody’s going nowhere and I am far gone
I can’t even see the ocean the motion was all wrong
Just a sea of broken bottles and cigarette models
On the floor, so high I had to clean the sky
Never been an existentialist, cynic, or a pessimist
Just another body on the edge of metamorphosis
Clinging to a rope I hope will not snap
Like my neck if I hit the ground, oh crap!
I’m apocalyptic fresh and I can’t say why
If I do it’s a lie, see the needle in my eye?
Meditation, preparation, or a conscious legislation
Couldn't help the fact my words are often littered with abrasions
As if shock rock poetry could save me from my death
It could possibly enlighten but I wouldn't hold my breath
Now I’m frightened by the notion of a new world order
But anarchy is hip if you’re on this side of the border
I digress, what a mess if you know what I mean
But I've burned out quicker than gasoline…
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
a bodhisattva can fly
a thinker can sink
a buddha can be happiness
an existentialist can try to disprove it
on a walk, a stroll on a path littered with questions, a man asks himself ‘why?’
on that walk, a woman answers ‘there is no ‘why?”
while swimming, she drowns and asks ‘what is death?’
during that swim, a fish answers ‘there is no ‘death?”
while sleeping, the fish asks ‘who am i?’
in that dream, i answer ‘there is no ‘i”
while living, i ask ‘what is it to be happy?’
during that life, the sky answers ‘there is no ‘happiness”
i said ‘thank you. thank you, sky. you are too kind’
i will breathe you up and know that there is nothing. i will be content. nothing.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:50 PM UTC
The optimistic existentialist
getting by on
the vapid knowledge that
nothing has meaning
but thinking it might
someday.
The shallowest
deep-thinker you’ve ever met
in a constant war
between vanity and philosophy,
drowning in mirror-hating narcissism
and my humble ego.
Introverted loud-mouth
socially inclined,socially incapable
assertion-loathing people-person.
Vengeful peace-maker,
violent pacifist
fists littered with deceptive,
fallacious,faint purple bruises.
All these things are the
drip drip drip
of drops in the bucket
of a level-headed psychopath.
I dare you
to dive into the water,
headfirst,
of my mind
where I constantly contradict myself,
like it’s a game.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
I often find that the people I know are polarized,
they range from,
positive to negative,
you have your optimists,
your idealists,
your cynics,
your nihilists,
and oddly enough,
everyone else.
Optimists believe in Hamilton's Principle,
but they tailor it to our own fabric,
they believe that for some unknown reason,
the current situation is the optimal one,
everything will be alright,
que sera sera,
carpe diem.
Idealists believe in truth,
they understand what is ideal,
and what is not,
they attempt to apply such principles to the observed world,
and more often than not,
they fail,
but that's alright,
they tried their best.
Cynics view the world as it is,
they observe and make rational judgement,
realism at its finest,
a time tested trait,
pragmatism has served them well.
Nihilists believe that life is without intrinsic meaning,
there is nothing that cannot be observed,
a craft of existentialist theory,
they assert that morality is a figment of mankind's imagination,
and for all we know,
they could be right.
And finally we have the remainder,
those of us we have no idea what we believe,
no path traced in the sand,
no trail blazed in the years prior,
and sometimes I think that perhaps this group is right,
there are limits to human understanding,
and so I ask,
how can we know,
oh,
how can we know?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Self-cut ginger locks that ooze pretension
pontificating so bluntly about "Cinema"
He buys Sociology textbooks at GoodWill,
TL;DR,
but they look good on a dusty shelf
don't they?
Mocking potential reactions to his
apparent ignorance.
A stoner who has never been high,
An existentialist who has never known what it is to die
A stargazer who has never seen the sky,
Highly expectant yet always refuses to try.
Ridicules what he doesn't understand
Taste so bland,
could swear he was conceived by the
FDA in a public school kitchen.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
How would you take the news of my bitter insomnia?
Would you feel conflicted knowing that could I sleep,
I might not still want you? I know that you’re just a heap
Of atoms tied together, cells powered with mitochondria,
And without you I am just succumbing to hypoxia.
You are nothing to the universe, just an ignorant sheep,
And were my head unclouded, no illusions would I keep:
I’d know in lucidity it’s just my acute monophobia.
But you are there still, hiding under my thin skin,
And you’re not going away, and it’s driving me insane.
How could I discount your memory, your incredible smiles,
Your hands rough like heartbeats, your eyes glowing like sin?
You are a heap of molecules, mere bone and membrane:
And your soul is a fire, your ardor drives me for miles.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
hiding in plain sight
a moon-flower in full bloom
gotta share this -click-
hey there, i am a
Buddhist existentialist
ask me anything
the little bird shouts
in a sea of other birds
all we hear is -tweet-
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
so the *** debate is raging
like a Californian
wildfire in the forests,
people are "presumed"
missing...
i'm sat watching
back to the future
(beats star wars, every,
single time:
the ****** is more obvious)
and then drinking...
i always wanted to
taste a lobster...
and listening to the best of
billy joel...
scratching my mustache...
BELGIANS IN
THE UK!
then fiddling with my bead...
my beard...
i have a beard?!i
**** i have a beard!
i took, fiddling with my *****
the wrong way...
after all ****** airs
have the same feel
as ***** hair...
a bit like cleavage...
so...
you're donningv
the buttock crack
up-front?!
funny, eh?
making fun of the phallus...
how about feeding
a Donnie Disney with your,
puppies?!
how about that?
***
if women do need
no men...
do what we do...
**** off anal-style...
we do the **** projective...
you cut out utilizing
the ******
look... 'appy bunnies"
if ai am about to turn
into a *****
the female right...
all the rights you require...
sure... have them...
but what sort of right
is it,
when there's no
existentialist argument?
go on... please...
make your dodo
and your
mixed-raced argument...
mono-racial is
the new neanderthal...
call it...
we're not progressive enough...
we're too ********
to mingle ethnicity...
call it!
call me halfway house
between down and
the ******
call it!
call it!
***** better call it!
(through gritting teeth):
call it!
i said... call it!
be your progressive "self"...
call it!
i'm ******** for not mingling
adequately enough with
crafting a trans-ethnicity populace...
neanderthal...
***** call it!
guess what... i love the laced
take on history via the Anglophone
re-reinterpretation
of Darwinism...
i love the neanderthal take on thiongs...
i'm bilingual, schizophrenic,
the sort of mongrel that...
has no place among
the duo-ethnicity... "mongrels"...
lucky you, lucky me...
i'm sorry... the F extends just so far...
two languages, orange man, bad...
but a congregation of
a dual ethnicity, green man, god,
and "the" good...
whatever suits your favor...
i should care,
i won't care,
i don't care,
i will, to never ever give a ****
about caring;
like god "said":
on your own;
i much prefer the freedoms
of the jungle,
than the restrictions of a zoo.
it's billy joel, "by the way"...
life will go on...
obviously a life much ********
than the intelligent people are used
to...
but... if that's what you allow...
then you're deserving it.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
The season is changing
And so am I;
The soft touch of Spring
Has left the sky
And the harsh light of Summer
Streams in reply
While the clouds drift away
With an audible sigh.
The vines are a'creeping
Up and around
While green grass is growing
To cover the ground,
And the leaves are so breathy-
just whispering sound,
As the wind floats on through them,
Casting shadows around
Over hill, cross the field,
I can hear the call
Of the cold giving way
As the plants grow tall
And as I age too
I look and feel small
Like a walkway of mem'ries
Photos on the wall,
Telling my story
Wending it's way round
I feel rooted,
Attached to the ground.
What was is not what is,
And life is no game;
Life goes on,
But am I the same?
Or just like the seasons,
Do I flex and I flux?
Will I answer my questions,
Or do I question too much?
Existing outside of this existentialist ruse,
I sit and I ponder,
I think and I muse.
The wind answers nothing,
Nature's secrets to keep,
As I sit and I struggle
With a feeling lodged deep
Of confusion and progress
And confliction eternal
Between Summer and winter
Autumnal and vernal.
The flowers that bloom
Near my feet seem to nod,
No heaven to answer to,
No devil, no God;
No one to tell them
What they must be,
No decision to make,
Thus, blissfully free.
Bobbing and swaying
They bend in the breeze
A humble display of might
Born through ease,
A pillar of strength
Upon bended knees.
So too shall I be
For my confusion is gone;
I shall bend with my troubles
yet be as strong
As the mountain I climb,
As the rock I sit on.
I shall fly in the sky,
Yet remember to land;
I will open my mind
And keep my plans.
I am not just one person
My whole life through,
I will be many more
So:
I'm Me!
Nice to meet you!
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Twenty eight years have passed, but count up the hours I'm awake
Your Paralyzing fears harassed you, time to see just what's at stake
Raise a glass and cheers the amassed burning candles on your cake
As your regretful tears fail to mask the pain of how you truly ache
Im Alive and present in the world because I will rest less
Don't ask me what time it is, my internal clock is a mess
Anxious insomnia ever since I lay rest in the womb fortress
Experience ages you beyond the years that you will possess
Ability reminds me that the bucket list can remain extensive
Virility blinds me with a pheromone mist that can be expensive
Fragility grinds my flesh as father time's fist grows more defensive
Humility binds spirit and mind into existentialist bliss so comprehensive
I'm blessed with restless soul syndrome to be my almighty guide
Refreshing zest and vigor to accompany me after all things eyed
Even if she's the best I can't see myself settling for just one bride
So let our bodies be the board and may our waters flow high tide
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
What becomes of the broken-hearted?
I guess it matters who they are.
An artist? Masterpieces.
An existentialist? Epiphanies.
A physicist? Reality.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Whenever I hear that song I'll get a lump in my throat
The size of a grapefruit
It will be your voice I hear gliding through the melodies
In my mind's eye I won't try to hide
Your head tilting back with the high notes
Your own eyes closed, squinting, holding back
A look of pure ecstasy and passion deep as any
Union remembered or forgotten
You sing and you make the song your own
So it is your own and I would not take it from you
Even if I could
Even if I wanted to
The sound drowns and I won't turn it down
It fills the room to overflowing
I fall back into your favorite chair and watch
You skim the waves
I color the empty space blue to give you something to sink into
When you fall
Sinking as the noise subsides
Reaching for my lifeguard arms
With the first line of the second chorus
I pull you down and draw you near
Ease you into your favorite chair
You won't mind, we can share
I've got the song in "repeat" mode and it's played 6 times now
Every single spin my head begins to swim
Doesn't get old, just sinks in deeper
A knife, a nail, sharp enough but painless
It's just a needle for my weakest vein
Injects the feeling I had the very first time I heard it
The first time I saw you hold a microphone to your mouth
Saw you move to and fro to the beat of the music
Already lost, five minutes and nine seconds out of time and space
All of the world's existentialist quandaries forgotten and powerless
You took me with you
Or more like you let me follow, by the tail, hold on for dear life
Knowing that when we burst through the other side
The words and music would be branded into our brains
I could leave it on "repeat" all night long
It never gets old
Still, the next song on this playlist is awesome
You really should hear it
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
The world weighs down upon the life examined.
But life is unsubstantiated;
Proof is sought in the darkness
with unbeautiful hands that extend
gracelessly into the unknowable,
Desperate for the horizon.
And we set ourselves on fire,
burning in blue flames,
to escape what we can't control
and to remember what it means to exist.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Google tells me it's an eight hour time difference.
Already absent,
my heart already fonder
for memories we hadn't been able to make yet.
Time is slow. You can sleep, then wake up.
Because of that: I haven't even bat an eyelid yet.
Unblinking in these unholy stretches
of distant poetry where I am God, I
watch our oblivious universe. Make something of it.
Fashion us a happy ending, if you will.
But you're there, and
I'm here.
So...
...would you mind
if we talked
about infinity...
...tonight?
Google tells me it's an eight hour time difference,
so tonight is meaningless to you.
You see the sun, I see the stars.
But who can say
one of us is more blind than the other?
Who is to say what is wrong
and what is right,
when we live in a world
where I, Romeo
and you, Juliet
can commit suicide
when it's both day and night?
Such things are preposterous...
even more so than I pretending to be God
with my pen of hormones and heartbreak...
Who am I to think that I could possibly... make something of it.
Or fashion us a happy ending, if you please.
I am mere, and powerless before the rotations of the Earth
just as I am powerless to my impulse
to click the refresh button
over any one of your profiles,
thinking it's somehow better to read 'About Me,'
then to ask about you.
Refresh.
Google tells me it's an eight hour time difference,
and neither Romeo or Juliet are dead.
Though they never lived as nothing more than characters;
we are people. You and I are not tragic concepts;
we are merely circumstance to
an arbitrary mixture of romance films, evolutionary biology-
all subject to the Earth's curvature, the Sun's shadows,
and the mocking Moon's stolen light. Simultaneous.
But because I am self-aware
I can be the **** of my own jokes
rather than the butt-end
of God's lonely, bored cigarette...
...It always has to end with
depressing existentialist philosophy,
doesn't it? More reflections or rejections
of purpose or meaning
of heaven and hope
or whatever will close the golden gates
of happiness to me. It just always
has to end that way, even though I'm not a French writer...
... I could still romance you with my words
and hold you as comfortably as I could my favourite book.
Not too tight. Not too loose. Lightly, effortlessly-
that's how it felt
to kiss you Goodbye
and all of that jazz.
And now after all that, the blues.
Refresh.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 4:14 AM UTC
I am trying to get my mind off
The usual morbid thoughts.
The ones about
How everything is temporary
And how I won't remember any of these people
In ten years
And how nothing matters.
How the world doesn't care whether any of us exist
And if humanity slipped out of existence
Mother Earth would probably rejoice.
About how we are nothing more
Than placeholders in the cosmos
And our existence is unnecessary
And unimportant.
Because if I stay on that path
I will end up in an
Existentialist state of
Suspended indifference.
And that is not good for sales.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 9:02 AM UTC
How could the mountains
forget
the ground beneath them
or the clouds deny
the sky
we bear this mark
this Galactic conception
and yet
we become fictional
a small etch
of understanding
nonexistent sketch
in the dredge pituitary
a one
dimensional edge
we watch like
a picture
show
existentialist
and it's fiery
seed
shooting it's
burning flames into
the black womb
soon to die
or birth a moon,
the candle is the soul
it is intent
that keeps it lit,
it is our lack of
immaculate
perception
that pulls it apart
Roche's limit
yearning
to string pearls
around heavenly
bodies
as
charisma reaches
to embrace
a burning,
and I see fire.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
When there is nothing else to get behind
you can always shadow yourself
people tend to do the opposite
getting ahead
or was it letting go
the genuine wild bewilderment
of not being sure of which it is
to some tired existentialist
who says life is subjective
but wont tell you his reasons to live
that he lost in the pocket of a moment
that's got this hole in it
see, this is the way
he's lost so much change
scraping memories away
like quarters for ***** laundry
like toenail clippings after walking up and down Pirsig's mountain
who made right now
sustain the future like some ever-present purpose
amidst a world where going the against the grain
means your going in reverse
in this narrow street
that we've made of reality
by putting all your weight
behind one of two directions
At root,
isn't the aesthetic of symmetry
reason enough to come clean with beauty
who's righteousness is in her allure
The one thing hedons like me
can agree
exists
Of that I am guilty
beyond doubt
beyond reason, where there is seldom just one
beyond justice, where I can do beauty none
at the center
without any edges
where you may hear it calling
right now
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Freedom is a gift and curse,
When time is finite and eludes,
It leaves us many wounds to nurse
With every choice that life exudes,
Affirming one, we must deny,
The others we may have pursued
While pondering the reasons why,
We're here at all, and what it means,
With knowledge that we'll one day die
This life is wondrous, yet obscene,
Both terrifying, and serene.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I sit here trying to decide what Writer influenced me,
I had my Existentialist Period very young Jean Paul Sartre, seemed dark and Complex, but... Albert Camus Captured it for me, the Emergence of Allen Ginsberg, bridge the Atlantic...the Pop of music influenced it all, from the Doors to Dylan
But Deep Down in the Dark of My soul is Jack Kerouac"who I am sure must have been influenced by JD Salinger" From Keorouac, to Ken Keasy and Hunter Thompson seem to be a good place to end
Others such as e.e. cummings, James Baldwin, Carl Sandburg, Herman Hesse, J,R.R. Tolkien, Lewis Carol, Issac Asimov. Robert Heinlein, and Stan Lee all had their places to... I feel Honored to be influenced By Such Amazing Talent.....
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Every question pontificated upon deaf ears, ear marked in outer space drifting aimlessly to distant stars, where shadows reign in open hearts that betray our silence in milliseconds
Basic recourse, every letter of every word inscribed in memories of dreams of some joey loves dawson fantasy. the unrequited notation that every syllable betrays my own self-confidence, my duality of existence to live but not to have lived
and so it goes that every question comes with hours upon days of internal self dialogue, over analysis of every gesture, every word, hidden meanings and double speak, that I have to find such betrayal in something as little as a Solemn smile, but the question remains what does it all mean?
Short of action, long of thought, mindless wandering of distant dreams, that one day I may find, Answers, to every question that such expanded diatribes may ease the pain, and mend the wounds, so that my own existentialist facade may crack and wither to dust in the sands of time, to once and for all I may just be another speck of sand wandering aimlessly between the stars, in a shadowless beauty that is my misery, so that every question comes to conclusion with easy, understandable answers
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Can you see me?
No
I'm standing right in front of you.
You're not bright enough.
Oh. Can you hear me?
No
I'm singing in your ear.
You don't know the words
Oh. Can you feel me?
No, I can't.
But I'm holding you so close.
But you're not dancing
Will you dance with me?
You don't know how
Will you teach me?
You'll never learn
Oh.
You're bleeding
I know.
Does it hurt?
Yes.
Oh.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC