#existential poetry

[lecineaste]

Alphaville by Jean-Luc Godard

[thestuffiammadeof]

And in all the healing you do,

all the trying and failing and trying again,

the small steps, the big ones,

the backtracking,

and the painfully shallow forward momentum,

in all that,

there are some things that will remain forever lost.

You will never regain the hearing in your right ear.

The teeth ripped from your jaw.

Or the soft skin you once had.

The trauma will remain in parts of your body as a token of what you once were,

and who you will never be again.

Every part a thread in the tapestry of who you are,

and yet none of it could conjure an image that truly reflects the painter who once saw.

[jeanclamence]

The Genuine Feeling of Being

By Jean-Clamence (me)

I am only a spectator in my life. I believe my real self, my genuine form, my purest state of being, my unbearably simple existence, to be constantly still, watching two separate halves of myself with individual intellect and intelligenee scream contrasting ideologies and opposing judgements at each other. They criticise one another, and I sit silently on the sidelines, thinking; 'I wish I could be so freely, so imprudently and recklessly unaware of myself. I want to flee from my mind, to escape this overwhelming, repulsive hope, this fake and inauthentic living. We gained this plaguing, so-called self-consciousness, this afflicting greed for avarice and success, these stuffy cities, these nations agonized by war, this excruciating act of introspect through evolution, and I wish we hadn't.' The worst is that I am forced to agree with it, to stride with it, to live a double-life, and to mechanically utter words of affirmation as though I exist as no more than an ostensibly convoluted—yet beneath the surface and the gradually withering facade of illusions, blind and brainless—system of cogs. I doze off in my waking and stir in sleep with my eyes thrown wide open.

As I 'live', one side of me contemplates stratagems to create a flourishing business in order to acquire wealth. However, that is only among many subjects; I think of arithmetic, physics, biology, and politics as well. As I "rest", the other whispers in my ear that I am entirely wrong about everything I have ever known. "It is insignificant! It is troubling!" It tries to convince me, hovering over me without a discernible, definite form in its nearly palpable, black haze similar to the shadow of Jack the Ripper, as if it has followed his footsteps and clung closely onto his naked feet like a loyal apprentice.

"No, you fool, it is troubling because it is impactful!" Its enemy shrieks as it departs from a train which travelled from a desolate station of emptiness to meet us. This half is white and is apparently, based on its accounts of itself, a harborer of virtue, clarity, and true strength.

"To them, not to you. And, even if it, let us suppose, impacts you in a way, why should you care?"

"You must abide by ... , ... , and so on, and so forth, otherwise you will be exiled." It argues with the other.

"But is that not what he needs?"

"Just as you cannot avoid the thick coverage of your own skin, you cannot avoid pain. Exile is not an escape, you must be aware of that! You have witnessed how he behaves in exile and abandonment. In those moments, we are alone with him, and—"

"And the effects are horrible?" It smiles malignantly and bends its neck comically as an exaggerated display of curiousity.

"And that is precisely where we agree, possibly even the only point on which we agree." It says solemnly.

Shaking my head, I interrupt them; "I'm not sure about that. You frequently discuss and convey your interests for me, and it is a common implication between the two of you that you want me to be blind. Both of you want me to be blind for the sake of seeing reality."

"Choose between us, and see what kind of life you earn. We have merely vouchsafed you ideas. Whether you castigate yourself and gloat over them or do that which is contrary, and carry them over into reality by converting them into physical acts, is entirely up to you. At your hour of death, announce to us whether you feel blind or edified, we will be waiting."

Silence is found in found in neither third-person nor first-person. After embarking on aimless pursuits over and over, I only discover the repetitive bizarreness of everything. Now, I must shut my eyes and drown it out.

[desideriumorsa]

.

I thought that if I could make something beautiful, a piece of art, a haunting poem, if I could do something with all of this ugly stuff inside me, it would make the mess excusable. It would make the living in a bruised being, worth it.

.

[girlbossingblogg]

the four ‘p’

psychology, philosophy, physics and poetry. thats what my heart aimed for. that’s how you could summarize my interests. i love to know people, i love to know our mind and how we work. i think it’s such a shame that, no matter how much we try, we will never know what others really think. and plus, i really love not philosophy per se but more the act of making philosophy, of just, throwing up really complicated thoughts you can’t stop thinking. and many believe philosophy and poetry aren’t good togheter, because one “investigates the truth” while the other hides it. i think they can be a good couple. i do a lot of my poems on my very fucked up thoughts. thoughts that would’ve made me have a lobotomy from the age of 10 if i was born 100 years ago. i also associate poetry with my love for literature and writing in general, plus music, because poetry is music, just silent. and then, physics. not that i’m oppenheimer, i just really love the stars. like, a lot. i love the moon, i love the planets, i love the white hole — black whole theory as well. my favorite movie is interstellar by the way. and i think it really is the epitome of my four p lovers.

[aviesuniversestuff]

Grandmother's Bed

i was cold,

so i curled up in my grandmother's bed.

my dad said to my mum to do what she was told,

but she went downstairs instead.

i get my defiant nature from my mother,

as, i find, does my brother,

but he has my father's rage,

something i once thought came with age,

but my grandmother isn't angry,

she's just sad and lonely.

she curls up in her bed and cries,

wishing away the solemnity of life,

growing cold,

as her bones grow old,

growing frail,

as her skin turns pale,

dipping into her bedsheets,

for the false illusion of safety.

time will still reach her under the bedcovers,

as it will her past lovers,

as it will my mother,

as it will my brother,

as it will i,

i am finding it easy to accept that i will one day die.

[m1ssnovember]

This is where I write

[heart-of-poetry]

I wore my best clothes for you today. I woke up late, but I still set aside extra time to make myself pretty for you. I never wear makeup, but I painted my lids with eyeshadow this morning. Some mornings, I do not have the energy to brush my hair, but I did a special style today. I did not know whether I would see you or not, but I did all of this just in case. I love you even if I never see you again. I look for you in places that I know you’ll never be.

[new-canvas]

White Noise

I never saw you, but you were always there. You called me, and I was there for you.

We made and opened many doors. Behind them, there were many worlds. Ones you and I could live in. Ones full of stories worth living.

You saw me as perfect, even though unfinished. You never saw a flaw, I was your everything. The name you called for protection. The name you called for help.

I never saw you. You were always there. You were there. It was all you.

I woke up. I don't remember much. Who am I? Do I exist?

The void you once were stares at me. It's silence is deafening as I'm trapped inside it. You were everything, you were nothing. Did you get to be a person?

[doelie]

I don’t believe in god… but I still look up at the stars and beg him to save me.

[lecineaste]

Alphaville by Jean-Luc Godard

[thestuffiammadeof]

A wordsmith locked inside my mind could not attempt to decipher the code through which my heart speaks. I feel aged. Thousands of years of pain locked in memories that allude me. The more time that passes the less coherent I become, and truth turns to bitterness like Frankenstein’s monster. I can only speak through other things, poems, rhymes, scratches on paper that float on waves of sound. Perhaps my love for you will free me. But right now I feel choked by my own insanity.

[damyoujackson]

What would happen if you met yourself? Not younger, not older. Just you, as you are now. Just another person with individual thought and feeling. Just you? What would you say? Would you realize that all the harm you have done to yourself or will ever do will affect this human? Everything you ever say about yourself would be said about them?

"I'm worthless." They are worthless.

"I deserve to die." Do they deserve to die? I'm really not sure where I'm going with this but would you look at yourself differently? Prettier? Uglier? Would you see a familiar set of features or talk to a familiar voice? Or would you see a stranger, talk to a new voice? Would you bitch about them behind their back, self deprecate but harm the other in the process?

If you met yourself as you are now, would you want to? What would you say?

Sorry won't cut it. There is nothing to thank.

If you met yourself as you are now, would you?

[siddhxartha]

You ever felt like you really just didn’t belong?

You ever feel even alienated to your very own past?

You ever feel the darkened emptiness of the horizon just by looking into yourself?

You ever grasped the deepened blue sky as if it were only illusion?

Do you ever exist?

Somewhere deep in these mechanisms where even the cold resists to linger.

Something unreal that even challenges your very own humanity.

Somehow standing in the darkness the emotionless robot that is the reflection in the mirror.

Ancestry of mystery encoded in the microscopic ecosystem of our bodies.

Inheritance of electronic signals in the brain enslaved to repeat generational patterns.

Folkstories of delusion whispering in the ears of your self diagnosed psychosis.

Emerging out of the flame not as gold, but as burns and scars that scream of trauma.

Rebirth as a being not of light nor dark, but as a wavelength without form.

An afterlife of vibration, formless form like the solution to a paradox.

Return to infinity as your ashes scatter across the subspace of reality.

Escape the cycle.

Breathe backwards.

9/16/2024 6:08am

[evolotusllc]

[aviesuniversestuff]

Rectangular

round the rectangular table,

we have a three way conversation - triangular.

i hate you,

cause i ain't you,

and i will never understand.

you love me,

but you aren't me,

and you will never grasp the truth at hand.

round the rectangular table,

my brother joins in - we make a square.

he is rotten with labels,

and pulls out his chair,

instead of sitting, he stands up,

and idly hovers there.

round the rectangular table,

he will angrily yell - we turn like a rhombus.

my dad will try and act elite and say "he is not like us."

we turn away from the sound,

our heads to the ground,

but my dad does not back down.

round the rectangular table,

my brother leaves, and we become an obtuse triangle again.

sighs and moans and such erupt.

i leave the table.

rectangular table with rectangular people sat upon it.

rectangular hearts,

rectangular morals,

rectangular love.

it is hard not to get tangled in your love.