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Ilion gray May 2018
remember this/
In the history of the infinite/
were born once/
a single awkward wave raging about the eternal
Sea of sovereign heavens/ to exist only as a question, that
God answers softly
In a soundless language,
the stitch of Silence of the subtle spaces remaining
In the wake
of leaves falling/
as they crash into earth
        "You will never be again...."

quietly listen..
.that you do not miss
The tides when they ride,
crawling through time,
..they have rose to be ridden!
For you...They are coming..
Through the sea of heavens..

            You must
              listen intently,
That you do not miss a word
as they race to the edge of clouds
and leap down through
Mid-heaven tumbling to earth
wrapped in raindrops..
.you must be are about to lose your mind..
Once it has gone,
Do not let it back in...
walk ***** across the bush,
collect the rain in the open pores and
Crevices of your golden gypsy skin..
Stop! ....
      ....everything in the universe.....
For only you could give a witness,
as escaping days speak freely
in the hidden language...
Once they have passed, they will never..
Be again.
I will tell you now...
that every atomie/
Dripping essence/
Into your being is sacred..
you are the keeper of
both grand  and desolate images
Unseen, even from days of the endless ancient , you alone who have traveled...far..
Far out beyond the chasmic cliffs,
who feels the earths pulse through his feet,
the one, who walks in darkness,
with his soul set on fire..

you alone..are the author of dreams,
                            In you the wind roars wild..

There is a force between us..  
I will teach you how to hold it ...
wield it wearily ,
For it's wrath
Will awaken every demon, and shatter them to dust
The glare it sheds from the sun will illuminate the evil hearts of man,
... remind mankind
of the empty heavens...
Of the vast
of unnumbered
and universes unseen,
That those empty.. heavens hold.

Emily Bostic Jan 2017
I am the type of person,
To bleed through ink,
Swiping both hands from side to side,
Smudging my feelings into white page,
Touching the chunky blots to feel,
My tangled thoughts,
In their entirety.

I want be alive.
I want to bear the weight,
Of a thousand emotions on my rough shoulders,
And if that isn’t enough,
I don’t know what I will do,
Anything to feel like I’m not dead.

I am here,
I am alive.

This is what existing feels like.
The realm no eye's seen.
Between sleep & awakening.

The domain in which unhinged,
Lies perpetually derailed,
& by the same — held still.

Not bridging -
Dead nor living.

As both prevail.
Merely existing,
In separation.

By its thin black veil,
or parasol coating.

Prior to history.
Beyond the present.

Before the sea.
After the mountains.

Below the peasants.
Above the Kings.

Exists a world, much like a dream.
Some call it "Heaven",
             Most don't believe.

—Ashton Conor Amstutz
ryn Jan 2015
I have never intended to be found

existing in my sanctuary that freed me

shedding the mask of anonymity I've sought to maintain

am i still the king of my sanctuary, my realm, my domain...?
Isaac Sep 2018
Existing inside a universe
that Jesus made just for us.
Written 3 September 2018

John 1
MeanAileen Jul 2018
High Life

It must be nice
to be as cold as ice
and live with a heart of stone.
No need to think twice
in a fools paradise
when your head is so overblown.
Existing so high
you can touch the sky
from your pillar of ivory and gold.
Everyday you lie
just to pacify
an ego which can't be controlled.
You don't play fair
nor do you care
who's heart you might break next.
Another sordid affair
caught in your snare
treating women like they are objects.
Looking down on all
like you're 12 feet tall
does not make you a bigger man.
Laughing as they fall
watching them crawl
forgetting where your own life began.
Just keep living in excess
striving to impress
surrounded by all your cool ****...
Because what you possess
when dead from stress
in purgatory, won't matter one bit.
Ilion gray Dec 2014
I have been here
Existing where there is only chaos
Of the angry days unbound
I beheld everything
Trudging through the ghetto,
Waist deep in dreams,
No one is asleep,
But, all of the eyelids
have been sewn shut.
There will be no revolution
For the blind;
I roar revelations,
out From the secret places
Earth has hidden,
The earth rages on
Unaware of the weight Mankind
Doesnt know how the worst years
Are the slowest
And most years are the worst;
the endless bones disseminated 
Of the weight of man
And  I am weary I, human.

The way we’re just barely breathing children,
Of the plastic invasion.
That cannot stop changing faces,

The cat is still missing
Of the days like faces of the endless ancient
I will regret this always
That I will never see the ****** rainfall
Of my fathers fury
I will not be found in the wake of leviathan
The holiest tears to wash me down
Of the time indefinite
I am no longer here
Existing where there is only chaos
After reading the poem, read again only this time read the last line first
and then read the first line, then the second to the last followed by the second line and  so forth and so on the last line should be "the way we're just barely breathing children", this poem style is something i came up with its called "juliane" feel free to give it a try. i would love to see what others can do with the form.
Eden Quinn Feb 17
I'm breathing,
feeling how the oxygen
spreads inside my body
after passing the way
inside my lungs.
So why am I questioning
if I'm living?

I wonder about when
I will actually be able to live
and not just simply exist.
In a wakeful contradiction, it lays fact between my fiction,
Tangling subatomics, it unravels as its tricks spin
deeper toward the outward...
                                      it won’t let up, 'til I give in.

Over matter, lay my mind…
I tell a lie to pass the time...
But there’s no reason nor a rhyme --
                                            Less still, a purpose?
I search for something to remind my mind
                     that there’s truth that isn’t worthless…

But as always, failure appears;
                              in a sort-of amnesic continuity.
And my reality lies to my own mind
                              Just as well
                              as it succeeds in its futility.
With destruction as its manifest,
It tells me that I stand my tallest
                              Upon two buckled knees.

And just as faith will find one’s doubt --
                  a search within has left without.
It seems that an answer, once sought out,
                  will be left lacking its question.
My truth divides itself,
                   as a product of infinite misdirection.

I try to substitute a reason for a rhyme.
But with no lies left to pass the time...
                              I swallow a dose of ignorance.
It goes down smoother than the truth.

In a war that started with a truce,
This world betrayed my faith to show me:
                                 that I'm only tall enough
                                 Once I’ve been
                                                                ­     slowly.

A pill too large to swallow,
                I think I’m choking on myself . . .
Or the irony of asking,
                     “How could I be so careless?”
Here I stand, Barely standing,
                   Consumed almost entirely
By my own dry-heaving self-awareness...

Left to fight the fears that my nightmares create;
I’m still running from my past,
                          yet, haunted by my fate.
They walk beside me always,
                          shadowing wholeheartedly —
Existing as a duality, both apart from,
                         and a part of me.

These ghosts have taught me very little...
                                    Aside from what I hate.
But, I've come to learn not to fear
                                    The forceful hands of fate.
For I shudder not at the thought of destiny,
                                    Or the inevitable in time...
Instead, I fear the eventuality of the choices
That were solely, and entirely, mine.

I fear that my will may be of enough influence, alone...
That fate itself may collapse beneath decisions like my own.
Or that I, myself, might be constructing
What destruction I will find
Among my shattered spirits and convictions,
In these depths to which I climb.

ryn Sep 2014
Elephant in the room*, shoo the **** away!
Don't stick around; I wish you wouldn't stay

Don't mess with my head, inciting all I feel
I don't need you here, I want to heal

Stop blaring in my ears, your noxious lies
I'm sick to the stomach with my pathetic cries

Resist flapping your gigantic ears
They simply just fan the rage in my tears

Quit blocking my view with your sheer enormity
Get out of my thoughts so better I could see

Halt your incessant skin rubbing against my sores
Chafing me raw on top of my existing scores

Pull out your pointy tusks, they poke and jab
I'm bent in many places; I don't need more stabs

Take your infernal rear out of my face!
I'm self-destructing, counting up the days

Cease your retaliation, leave with no protest
Go find and sit yourself in someone else's nest

Drop your intentions to stomp me broken
I'm mangled enough; almost misshapen

End this mindless rampage...please
Let me iron myself straight, in peace...

Dear elephant, have you gone?
Thank you for the blight of my time, you've spawned
Traveler Apr 2016
Did you ever look
Into an addict's eyes
And see the reflection
Of your own ghost

All your judgment
All your abuse
Dangling there
A noose
Around your own throat

Deeper than human despair
The soul gone missing
Into thin air
Did your spirit ever grow tired
  Of existing here...

Did you ever wonder
If there was anything left
Did you ever catch
Your last breath?
Traveler Tim re to 2019
Many years ago there was a time
When I was so tired of life that I prayed for non-existence.
I feel so alive now that I've caught my second breath, I don't suspect there is another breath left, of precious life.
Hartaz Kaur Jul 2018
Mama told me to keep her close.
Certainty provides clarity.

So I give her my hand,
And in barter, I quest a true friend.

I have a doubt, I turn to Certainty,
But am met with the silent treatment.

I press further,
Only to be reduced to resentment.

I wonder. How can this be?
Desertion in times of desperation?

Certainty, existing and non existing, remains an illusion.
A body, that will never affirm any supposition.
Joseph Koch Mar 6
Life without life would not be death,
It would just be existence without living,

I cannot describe the way i feel when existential thoughts are on my mind,
I wonder how many people have wandered the same thought trail as I  have,

I end up at the exact same final conclusion.

My final thought is always the same:

The air, the earth, sand, dirt, water, and all other matter would pass through time just the same, likely undisturbed, were life not to exist.

Existence is only meaningful if you make it meaningful
Everyone has to decide that for themselves.

Being born wasn't my choice, but an event that occurred in order for me to decide to live my life, and make my own birth meaningful for myself,

Or to pessimistically live my life knowing that living is essentially meaningless,
For all plants and animals, reproduction and self-preservation are the two most important things.

Is life just boiled down just *** and self care?

Is life important for the sake that it exists?
or is life just a step into something bigger and unexplored and unknown?

I'll never have the answer to what happens after life until i die,
I choose to try not to think these thoughts, because they were made for someone far more intelligent than myself to solve.

But, when they do inevitably sneak in to the back of my mind,
It seems you get to choose yourself, individually, whether any of it is even worth thinking about.
not really a poem, just had a long existential few days, couldnt get these thoughts about how sad getting old is etc etc. heres what i came to conclude, i hope the grammar wasnt terrible, i spent all night awake and rushed to get these thoughts out of my head.
Madelynn Nieves Sep 2018
Varying degrees of self hatred
Effortlessly breaking me down

Making me doubt
Everything we ever were

Asking politely
Let me be
Or learn to grow
Not digress
Existing in solitude is what I do best
Tommy Randell Feb 2017
That which serves to identify the Holder

A Contrivance for holding

Something contrived for a purpose, an Artifice

A Product of art, an artificial substance

A compound not previously existing
but formed during decomposition

A period of metastasis where Breakdown occurs
Tammy M Darby Sep 2013
Of woman's strength
Feminine emotion
Novice poet of rhyme
Wandering traveler in time
A skilled hunter

I am an outlaw
Choosing not to embrace conformity
Or integrate into the system
Societies matrix
The definition of normal
Existing uneasily on the fringe

Confederate born
Southern bred
I fly my flag with pride overhead
Not out of hate
To represent the heritage of my birth

A scholar
Obscurity is my chosen environment
Connoisseur of the written word
The yellowed paper soon obsolete  

These are my many attributions
I will not dispute it
Indeed I am a maze of confusion
In the conscious world
I am a strange combination

All Rights [email protected] Tammy M Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base Sept. 2013
ight reserved
Butterfly Nov 2018
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I wasn't a genuine friend.
I'm sorry for always being a problem.
I'm sorry for not meeting yout expectations.
I'm sorry for never learning.
I'm sorry for causing you pain.
I'm sorry for making you feel less than you are.
I'm sorry for being selfish.
I'm sorry for coming into your life in the first place.
I'm sorry for existing.

I was supposed to be your everything.
I'm sorry I couldn't be.
As summer bursts through its edges
with the promise of warmth,
endless days of reverie
and stretches of sunshine along the horizon,
the trees shiver with melancholy
as though their leaves anticipate
the chill of autumn
to fracture their very existence
only to be left  s c a t t e r e d
on the pavement
later swept away -
    kept away -
then bitten by the raw winter,
seizing the only
existing solace in spring
However fleet i n g
this consolation may be
Because as summer once more
avouches to bring euphoria
With it will come a desolation
that hasn't been hoped for
but nonetheless expected
It has become solely comparable
To the love that was lost
Among the whispered promises of forever
Like the thrumming of the raindrops
on a summer's night
Greetings, Hello Poetry! Happy to be here. It's nice.
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