Archive for the ‘Existentialism Poetry’ Category

Consuming Fire

Fill this tank
‘Cause it’s empty
You faceless man
You used to have a name
Not mentioned anymore
Cause I’m too proud
And I’m too hurt
To even repent.

I knew from the beginning that this was going to fail
You told me over and over and over and over again
But I like the mistakes in a flavor that I can enjoy the taste
I’m drowning but my arms don’t reach out to be saved.

Leave me alone
But (please) don’t forsake me
Cause you’re in my head
And still cannot hear me
Bit my tongue
Before claiming anything
My pride
My anchor keeping my under.

I know of your existence and all of your righteous ways
But this outcast found a place where hurt is heard
There’s no more trace of you in the present world here
It has become the thing that you told me I’d most fear.

If you don’t reach me, I won’t attempt anything alone
I know that I need this, but I need to see my worth
You left an imprint in my soul, enough to hold me back
But you forget to place a filter when the sky turns black.

Perpetual Predicament

Don’t lose faith in humanity yet
Someone will rise for the occasion
Once we’re done with that bottom dollar bet
And we’re up to our necks in duly deformation.

Not truly separated from the center
But severed and extracted from it
With fuel to add to our ill temper
No wonder we cannot find any peace.

This mechanical inception of you and I
It becomes part of the perversion that comes alive
One pull of the lever and the level starts to rise
Either you drown in it with dignity
Or sell your soul in order to survive.

Flick of the switch for things to turn around
Inane in here, a prisoner of my own war
But as we all fall down the bottom ground
We realize we were part of the problem from the start.

Not truly set on the pier base
But buried deep within the walls
Which might or might not be case
Of why no one ever heard my calls.

This ostracized intricate perception of us
Lays a pragmatic paramental parallel over our beliefs
‘Cause is there any out there left to trust
Shouldn’t be the ones who serve
On our pain and feed on our grief.

So come and put on your Sunday’s best
You might need to look pretty for the picture
We’re cluttered here with all of the rest
They bring down the foundation to break apart the structure.

Enters the incipient perpetual predicament
The never-found solution for this ongoing mystery
Adding up to the sentiment of ambivalence
And so we go on living under such incensing misery.

Confinement

Ever shifting thoughts
Of this ever shifting mood
Incongruent to the cause
Vital to the self-indulgency.

I am what I feel
And when I’ve felt nothing
Then I’m gone
Waging on what I feel
And when what I feel
Contrasts against
Then this paradigm shifts
A paradox of inconstancies.

Confident in my confinement!
Adamant in my confidence!

One day led by the muscles in my brain
One day led by the muscles in my heart
Which is stronger? Which can sustain?
Which can rekindle the light in the spark?

Living under incongruences
To tell myself is it okay
May I be the one exception?
Justifying the lack of will.

I am determined…

To feel what I feel
And when I feel nothing
Then I’ll be gone
Waging on what I feel
And then what I feel
Weights upon
Then this paradigm shifts
Such suitable scapegoat.

Confident in my confinement!
Adamant in my confidence!

Convenient to what I want
Perfect fit for what I feel
For everyone to see the light
And the lack off, the night
And the sky, and the sun
When it’s shinning upon.

Oh! This world is all in my head
I’m the center of this universe
May all the words that I’ve said
Be the way of where life traverses.

Repair and restore
Be one when you’re to reborn
Ready to bear so much more
Rejecting this old flesh in spurn.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything new. This is about a personal spiritual conflict, based on Carl Jung’s theory of the shadow.

Decentered

This is not supposed to be happening
How can I still be feeling like this?
This is not the way that I’ve devised it
How could I make a mistake as such?

Perfect being
Perfect gnosis
No room for errors
How can math be failing?

Perfect numbers
Perfect premise
No space for miscalculations
How can a character change it all?

I’m losing air to breathe
I’m drowning brain cells
Have no time
Have no patience.

Something above me
Something inside me
There must be something
Instead of this vast nothingness.

Shun Spirit Sanctum

Feeling the attraction to exhume it all
Itching for the invitation calling of its voice
The surge concealed in the inner stall
Subtracts the objective goal of a given choice.

Appealed by the desire to depict it all
Anxious for what’s concealed under the veil
Baffled with the retort of these parables
Bewildered by the perplexity concocting the trail.

A pattern is set for the naked eye to see
For what’s supernatural and what to believe
Pressed on the surface for the iris to bleed
Limited reasoning for what’s there to conceive.

Take a leap of faith into the infinite possibilities
The simplest of paradoxes in contradictory truths
Fix the piece in its place to face the one true reality
The answers most times lie beneath what’s occult.

I’m not sure why, but I was thinking about my mother and I wrote this…

Valetudinarian and Authoritarian

The simplest answer is the right one
Collective bodies, the sum of clones
Come pinpoint the time it all began
Hurts in my brain and in my bones.

Blood on the wall, it is my own
What you reap is what you sown
You like it when I ache and moan
All the pain I have never shown.

I have some skeletons in my closet
Can’t access the exit doors, when I have to close them
The smell of the corpses ever closer
And I skin one by one, leave them naked and broken.

This domain is for the valetudinarian
And for every other authoritarian
To fetch the placebo treatment
From the authentic hypochondriacs.

Accent

In the land of opportunities
Not everything is what it seems
Another seed born in duality
I’m the bastard son without a name.

I look at the way I speak
And I can see I don’t belong
I look at the color of my skin
And I can see I don’t belong
I look at the way I think
And I can see I don’t belong
My theological and political view
And I make sure I don’t belong.

So stop me at the air port
With hands up facing a wall
Say this routinely and random
To contradict any sense of being logical.

I look at the way you speak
And I can see I don’t belong
I look at the way you look at me
And I can see I don’t belong
I look at the way you think
And I can see I don’t belong
Your theological and political view
And you make sure I don’t belong.

When you hint you have a problem with my kind
You mean you have a problem with all of us
Whatever you mean having a problem with my kind
I’m the bastard son of the land your people raped.