an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
Make existential poems below!
I'll start
I'll start
-
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Existential poems
- Thread starter an anarchist
- Start date
an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
A haiku
Life is so fragile
Death granted me a reprieve
LIfe is so fragile
Life is so fragile
Death granted me a reprieve
LIfe is so fragile
I think that my will's unconstrained,
a feeling which is quite ingrained.
And though I've volition
I've still a suspicion
my choices are all preordained.
a feeling which is quite ingrained.
And though I've volition
I've still a suspicion
my choices are all preordained.
an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
Haiku
God has shown me truth
But I refuse to look on
God, please stay away
God has shown me truth
But I refuse to look on
God, please stay away
an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
Haiku
Salvation for all?
Or a life of normalcy?
That choice is easy
Salvation for all?
Or a life of normalcy?
That choice is easy
vulcanlogician
Well-Known Member
Are we allowed to simply reproduce existential poems from our favorite poets? Or is it original stuff only?
If we can share others' stuff, I like this one by Walt Whitman. If not, sorry to derail the thread.
"A Hand Mirror"
HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is
it? Is it you?)
Outside fair costume—within, ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice
or springy step,
Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, ve-
nerealee's flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and
cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;
Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go
hence,
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!
If we can share others' stuff, I like this one by Walt Whitman. If not, sorry to derail the thread.
"A Hand Mirror"
HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is
it? Is it you?)
Outside fair costume—within, ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye—no more a sonorous voice
or springy step,
Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, ve-
nerealee's flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and
cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left—no magnetism of sex;
Such, from one look in this looking-glass ere you go
hence,
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!
Wu Wei
ursus senum severiorum and ex-Bisy Backson
So, they call this life
It can be so very hard
I have a headache
As I stumble though my everyday
I'm surprised how fast it goes away
days weeks months year lost in the fray
then one day I notice my hair is gray
thinking to much causes dismay
and then I realize I only have today
It can be so very hard
I have a headache
As I stumble though my everyday
I'm surprised how fast it goes away
days weeks months year lost in the fray
then one day I notice my hair is gray
thinking to much causes dismay
and then I realize I only have today
vulcanlogician
Well-Known Member
I do actually have an original piece that has some existential themes. This is a poem I wrote over 10 years ago. It contains both existentialist and realist themes. It is meant to be a performance piece... not necessarily recited... but if you can get the rhythm in the structures, I think you've heard the poem properly, even if you have only read it. But you have to follow the beats and the rhymes in order to hear it.
"Grandeur" by vulcanlogician
My grandeur reches high levels of vice.
vice grips hold me motionless, charging me a price:
the rate is fair.
Fair as any price you could charge.
What's the price on the head of a soul that's at large?
Oh my God. Oh my God!
the broken barrier,
like sound from harriers,
STYLE erupts from deep in the chests of burden-carriers.
Next time you think you function, check yo self.
Cuz I'm a take a probe into your depth with stealth. YOU'RE
tryna find a new soul.
It sounds just like a loophole.
You cruise with your excuse to the abuses of a new pole.
You claim that "GOD IS LOVE"
but God hates ****,
when it is eerily so clear
that he prefers riches to rags.
Oh my God it's the truth,
right from the source (imagine that).
Oh my God my grandier's on the rag and up to bat.
Out this ballpark
I landed in the Mall sparkin'
mary with Larry,
and I'm working at Wal-Mart.
Oh my God, grandeur's not what it could be,
would be or seemed like on the day that it took me.
But I got passion, I rap like no rookie
so-grand-is-my-style cuz it's sweet like a cookie
CUTTER. I'm hip hop's Betty Crocker with the butter;
mother****er, I rhyme bones into our mother Hubbard's cupboard.
So if I stop and take a PEEK at where I stand,
it's easy for me to see I got my places to be grand.
***
That's an original poem by me. But I think the Whitman poem I posted earlier is quite a bit better.
"Grandeur" by vulcanlogician
My grandeur reches high levels of vice.
vice grips hold me motionless, charging me a price:
the rate is fair.
Fair as any price you could charge.
What's the price on the head of a soul that's at large?
Oh my God. Oh my God!
the broken barrier,
like sound from harriers,
STYLE erupts from deep in the chests of burden-carriers.
Next time you think you function, check yo self.
Cuz I'm a take a probe into your depth with stealth. YOU'RE
tryna find a new soul.
It sounds just like a loophole.
You cruise with your excuse to the abuses of a new pole.
You claim that "GOD IS LOVE"
but God hates ****,
when it is eerily so clear
that he prefers riches to rags.
Oh my God it's the truth,
right from the source (imagine that).
Oh my God my grandier's on the rag and up to bat.
Out this ballpark
I landed in the Mall sparkin'
mary with Larry,
and I'm working at Wal-Mart.
Oh my God, grandeur's not what it could be,
would be or seemed like on the day that it took me.
But I got passion, I rap like no rookie
so-grand-is-my-style cuz it's sweet like a cookie
CUTTER. I'm hip hop's Betty Crocker with the butter;
mother****er, I rhyme bones into our mother Hubbard's cupboard.
So if I stop and take a PEEK at where I stand,
it's easy for me to see I got my places to be grand.
***
That's an original poem by me. But I think the Whitman poem I posted earlier is quite a bit better.
an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
free form
Afterlife
The plight of a man
is the weight of knowledge
the light of the damned
does not acknowledge
the fear of sure death
it cheers our last breath
The power of man is freedom from death
The hour lifespan precedes calm with Seth
Afterlife
The plight of a man
is the weight of knowledge
the light of the damned
does not acknowledge
the fear of sure death
it cheers our last breath
The power of man is freedom from death
The hour lifespan precedes calm with Seth
Last edited:
an anarchist
Your local anarchist.
God of Hellfire
Oh God of hellfire
Here you are, atop the spire
have you come because my straits are dire?
oh god, king of liars, you draw my ire
though it was you I used to admire,
your faithful squire
why have you conspired
for my end to be that of Tyre
cheap skanks you hired
about my lusts they inquired
they act admired
just one thing they required
to lay my soul on the pyre
now I hear the choir
joyous for my soul they are about to acquire
oh god of hellfire
the demons you surely sired
oh god my life is about to expire
I have but one last desire
to curse you, god of hellfire
Oh God of hellfire
Here you are, atop the spire
have you come because my straits are dire?
oh god, king of liars, you draw my ire
though it was you I used to admire,
your faithful squire
why have you conspired
for my end to be that of Tyre
cheap skanks you hired
about my lusts they inquired
they act admired
just one thing they required
to lay my soul on the pyre
now I hear the choir
joyous for my soul they are about to acquire
oh god of hellfire
the demons you surely sired
oh god my life is about to expire
I have but one last desire
to curse you, god of hellfire