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Standing straight on a plateau, Overlooking an arch by the meadow, Gazing into streams of pinwheels, Overshadowed like the ghosts of vinyls;
Vide la catastrofe e la chiamò bellaVide distruzione e la chiamò coscienza. Hai visto una stella collassare Ordinati a numeri primi gli universi incrociati a perfezione,una sterile bellezza
When does the tree understand its place? How can it perceive changing clock’s face? When, from sapling born, its leaves begin to wilt Does it know its fate, is its aging felt?
Riding in trees, Falling off treatise, Gendering yearning souls, Trying the caste of cells, Postering high miracles,
I sat like a pigeon with a brain, Curiously wondering about visuals that retain, I spoke no words nor committed deeds; It was all meaningless,
I truly never thought it'd be me, 'cause as a kid all my cares were free. So when she looked me in the eyes and said chemo starts soon, my heart opened up to the emotional wound.
When we finally sleep, The carnival will come. Wind will strip dye from our gowns, The corn will grow wild, And the carnival will come.
ze s'letia qaelu nav ai 'maecra' vintavte'm viir nul dils e' zeano un iirunnul 'maecra' reihia raehiaene raisu rau'r
Picked thin from all the wait, all the hands that Got gnarled before they could reach out— Or, even worse, hurt somebody. And Sydney’s wearing a dress with yellow flowers.
Throughout life, there are those too important to let go. But no matter how hard anyone holds on, We'll all end up gone; There's a close to every show. You were precious in every sense of the word.
I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I'm at. I don't know where I'm heading, And I don't know who I am. The earth beneath me is spinning; I am here and now I'm not.
I rejoice in sharing the earth With someone so lovely as you. I think of your face and I'm filled with mirth; My joy and happiness can't be subdued. But despite this thrum of ecstasy, I carry great trepidation,
Passion, music, worldly delight; Ecstatic, they celebrate all night. For at dawn, there are sacrifices; Pleasures to be spurned as vices. Humanity has this wonderful disposition.
I have meaning, past my purpose. I do. I know this. I am even - most days - convinced of it.
I keep happening and it never stopsI want to stop but it happens anywaysAnyways, how are you? I'm feeling eh,I don't feelLike anythingAt allIs it all Anything at all?All I am is all I feelAnd I keep happening
Dear All, I am everything and I am nothing. A creeping shadow in the black, abyss-like corners of life. To gaze upon my cloaked, physical form, That of which was comprised from a stereotype and guesswork,
A populace of mortals Grown blasé to The once quizzical nature of survival Begin to crave substance in living
A path with nothing to fear. Walking on a road to nowhere. A path with nothing to see. We can chose who we want to be.
eyes plastered up can't see petty brained fucks encompass you and me encircled and closed outside to in crash that shabby ass shack to no end
Come gaze with me into the night, Into the endless sky, Stretching out and out to the edge of eternity. The literal edge of forever. Come gaze with me into the night, And feel how big it all is.
About this time last year, I thought I knew what stress was, as I walked through the iron gates of a gold and purple castle, waiting for Nostradamus to tell me my fate, taking classes that I thought I would hate.
When I hear the pitter-patter on the roof after a long sunny day, I think. I think about what it must be like to be a raindrop, or even just a molecule of water. To be able to go anywhere, or would
there are hundreds of cities and every single oneis filled with thousands upon thousands of people sitting in cow face grinning but also trying real hard not to move because theywill be shot in the heada girl in gaborone cries for a dead pet (she
poetry makes it easier the attempt of articulation of the abstract; feelings too unfocused to figure; emotions endlessly endeavoring for expression
thanks to Marcel B. The day moon says “fuck you” when it rises With the brick in the sun at 4:00-- It wasn’t his idea.
It is easy to lose oneself gazing into the vastness of space. The calm beating of the heart begins to mirror the gently pulsing twinkle of the stars. The consciousness is perfectly absorbed
Let us all act like intellectuals and romanticists. Let us frolic in anguish and arrogance. Let the abyss absorb all piety and love. Have hope. No, desire hope, for the wish to have it is just as futile as hope itself. Don't fear my dear, Please d
Frozen in time, Made only to be observed. Pasty white and porcelain Some might believe me to be dead. I think I used to dance, Judging by how I stand. But that had to be long ago,
04/19/2016 Entrenched in Existentialism 1:36PM Trying
a discussion with a friend about Extroversion and Introversion led to this: you're spending the Rest of your life on an island. if you had the choice between living in Solitude
On a deserted island, here I amDoomed to die, in the sandI won't bring any tears to let cryOr something to hold, like someone's hand.
I sink like a brick at the first sign of trouble, whether or not I’d like to admit it, I tried to get out this, but couldn’t quite fit the thing into
at 4:07 she ponders thatshe can captureneither stranger nor familiar,neither body nor mind,neither meaning nor aesthetic-- she, instead, is the conquered--
Mile marker seventeen passes without word, as all the others have. (and as all the rest will). To any outside observer I am a point on this dark highway a flash of light into the black
Isn't it amazing what we, as a species, have come to accomplish? I just have to look out the window and I'm astonished.
Strangled by the showerhead She answers but she doesn't speak She's too busy staring at the wall Making sure it doesn't leak. She sways and sinks, continues to think
I feel empty,
These questions sound so numb As I lug a skull empty and aching Full of marks but no answer. I stop, bathing bleeding batteries in warm raw sunlight And smoke long cigarettes One at a tell-tale time
The World is like the Endless Sea- For there are many things meant to be- Yet so much more still to come- Any absolute prediction is complete fiction- We are in no way-shape or form in the know-
To live is to be lost... lost within the mind, within books, within studies. Within ideas that can't fathom constellations, far as the very depths that the soul cannot reach.
The time we spend with ourselves when living in a community full of so much. The money we try to save towards spending on the next new thing. The work we put into not working at all
In the vast, eery wilderness, Of deceit and sorrow, Lay the degenerate hollow men, Putrid, and banished from their minds.
Too many variables Too many scariables Too many choices I could make Too many paths that I could take
A beginning. The dawn of a new time Stretching its claws from conception
I am A ship without a captain. I tread water quietly, lap-ping at my sides It pushes and pulls me softly... Calmly I sway in the direction the water calls, Just as I always have.
Everything is true, and nothing is true”
I exist only on the brink of unsure,
Where are you,
Every now and then, My mind escapes me, and returns-- Exerting more energy with each fleeting arrival And departure But this time, it returns With a question
If I could change one thing,I would change my writing skills.I would improve them and mold themso I could pay my college bills. So many scholarships
The problem we face Is one of pride; We want to believe That the answer's inside So we build with our hands And observe with our eyes, Jump to conclusions
In Stranger in a Strange Land, ‘to grok’means “to understand so thoroughly thatthe observer becomes a part of the observed"
Our ancestry shall not define usWe are as much a piece of the pastAs an integral portion of the futureAnd yet we are not only that
It’s boring, it’s all boring. That’s what I tell myself. Then I remember a quote from a source I never cared to research that says Only boring people get bored A quaint platitude for the
empty, filled. Empty; Filled. Empty.
I've tried to make sense of it all, but reasoning fails, which leaves me falling down again, to where I began to misunderstand this life. If the only absolute is the knowledge that there's no truth,
Defendant, Plantiff Existentialist Society
Awake as an owl a desert bird the orange eyes the streetlamps cast upon my wall a shadow like a longship on the desolate wasted oceans or only my lampshade
Blue lines white paper scribble, draw, write and assemble "kiss me and say good-bye" for the third time time passes by "I got ADD and ADHD" every single day hole punch me
Impatiently sulking through dismal days A wretched state of dour contemplationSeeing only drab shades of darkest graysCaged in cyclical self-lamentation Imprisoned in humankind’s austere wallsConsoled by a primitive ambition Pacing madly about thr
"I Am" I am an infinitesimal blemish in this everlasting eternity that is time and space I wonder with doubt, and I doubt with wonder
If you don’t feel very happy, or if you just feel sad at this moment, I want you to go outside and stand there for a very long while and try to comprehend the fact that you are rare enough to be
If I may only have my hands for companions And must live my days On a bed in the darkest hole Then let me have a pen Let my eyes grow weary from squinting Let my fingers cramp
A flicker floats upon a crystal sea. The chilly clear white-caps Damask a dance of cold intricity- Beneath the wind that flaps,
I heard the last bell ring as day turned to night As I heard the last bird sing. The sky burned fiery and then darken everything in sight.
wicker baskets positioned precariously at the edge of a bluff like the skulls of children (full of apples and oranges) spilling forth into the ocean mixing to create a fruit soup of sorts
My greatest friendship Has lied within the tip of the pencil That which moves In many forms. Syllables that dance around The atoms of the paper And rejoice After every rhyme.
There will be a time when you feel your life slipping by there will be nothing you can do but let him come for you
Inspired by Albert Camus' The Stranger Are you scared to think that you will never understand this life, little alone yourself or your friends?
We stared at palms- the softer, crafting part of a hand, "We are the same color." "No," said the sister, "turn them over." We stared at the back of hands that created nothing, "Woahh."