game of survival
In a world birthed from chaos,
Fuelled by it.
Running its course as steady as the ever-changing wind.
And the one thing that brings be peace,
Has the potential to make me cease
A sign that someone, somewhere loves me,
Or undoubtably hates me.
A journey that might set me free,
But one I never wish that never will be.
But also, one that I know, will inevitably happen.
It makes sense does it not?
I can’t just stay in this world and rot.
Everyone needs a way to cope,
Even if its’ with a piece of rope.
Chaos creates chaos.
Maybe, this world isnt chaotic sound.
Maybe, it’s simply just mine,
Wondering aimlessly around,
Looking for any sort of sign.
To fight, to live, to purely try to survive.
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▾ This Poem's Voice
Your Poem's Voice
Mix of personal struggle with broader existential/philosophical questions about chaos and meaning
Dense packing of existential ideas, fragmented thoughts, rapid conceptual shifts throughout
Predominantly dark: suicidal ideation, hopelessness, chaos, with minimal redemptive moments
Restless, agitated voice with fragmented syntax, urgent questioning, kinetic desperation
Approximately 20-25 lines; mid-length poem in 16-30 line range
Some metaphor (chaos, rope), personification (chaos creates), but largely declarative and direct
Pure lyric internal monologue; introspective first-person voice throughout, no dramatic personas
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