Life Like Words

Maybe the world is a game.

If it is, then death is just the goalpost.

The timer. The only real rule.

If it is, then dying is our final score.

Working may be desperate.

Wealth or happiness may make a difference.

We all subsist strategically,

Gaining or lacking in different amounts.

Totality pressures us

To decide which pursuits prove worthy

Of conscious individuality

While it’s ours to compare and contrast.

It’s just a poem.

Writing, but we know it’s a burden.

Words are ours to choose

Until space confines us to a stop.

 

Telling Life Like Stories

My story is my self-love,

Framing my existence against odds and fate.

I’ve never not been telling myself

How I relate to everything I love.

Sometimes everything means nothing

Logic draws an empty shape

A void of anxiety or dread,

The overwhelming potential of a blank page.

In confrontation with this,

My beating heart vs the blind night,

I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”

Displacing emptiness with narrative form.

The sharpened edge of reality fades,

Never abating, but making space for creation.

I draw meaning out of thin air

And weave it as I’m best able.

I exist, therefore I tell a story.

I value truth and beauty because I listen.

Every fleeting moment is somewhere

Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,

But even the finest prose,

Is little more than painted dust,

Fractals to be discarded and neglected,

Swallowed whole by eternity.

It’s an absurd story,

Sound and fury told by an idiot,

The dearest fantasy of my heart

Like late autumn leaves.

Absurdity, my idol,

Language of passions and pleasures,

Defying inevitable complexity

To take rapture in the fantastical.

Laugh at my solemnity,

Existence makes us lunatics,

The world is a journal for mad ramblings,

And it’s a story to be loved.

 

By Sanya Elswyth Walma.

Visit my Patreon to help me keep creating and for exclusive poetry and other writings.

 

 

 

 

 

A Modern Rumination

When I discarded my religion,
I found a world that I’d been missing
Already in motion
Without my conscious participation.
Simultaneously, I couldn’t help noticing
The blandness of modern humans
Chasing superficial pleasures
As though nothing else exists.
The abandonment of false purpose
Both liberates and destroys,
A hollow heart hurts to carry
But has capacity to be filled.
Values like certainty and purity
Are irreplaceable once they’re gone,
Vitality and wisdom
Filling in to hold their shape.
There’s a whole horizon to fall into,
An endless void of discordance
To construct, reflect, and internalize,
A perpetual stream of absurd meanings.
There’s no clear answer,
No guarantee of another life,
No genuine good or evil,
But there are endless things to analyze.

Assembling Meaning

Every story

Is an empathetic connection,

People and ideas

Equally entrenched in my heart.

When you speak

You create meaning to decipher,

A flowery grove

Suspended in the callus void.

Consciousness creates.

Every fantasy enriches thought.

Images and ideals

Are the angels of mortal Gods.

Artfully imperfect,

Our subtle cracks, Nature’s profundity.

Our deepest griefs

Akin to scribbles drawn with passion.

 

Souls exist in meaning exists in thought

Expressed in art to be interpreted imperfectly

By the senses of living things.

Read, write, listen, and think,

So even the damned find salvation.

 

Vibrancy, The Shadow Unraveling

A braver me

Once hungered for the most radical,

The depths of pain and heights of pleasure,

Arts forbidden and obscene.

Looking for shadows,

The silhouettes of hidden meanings,

In music, words, and old philosophies.

All or nothing, or perhaps just me.

Everything to know,

To intercept as we compete.

Learning to express my ailments

Devoid of my identity.

 

A wiser me

Found meaning in shattered pieces,

Learned respect for my flaws,

And earned the rites of restoration.

Feeling through my being,

Pursuing dreams to their bitterest end,

Swallowing whatever lurks there,

And tasting something sweet.

Unraveling an eon

Of silent fears and insecurities,

Traversing the deathly path of nihilism

To know what I truly love.

 

 

The Paragon Of Human

Truth, love, and beauty;

Passion, lust, and touch;

Sensitivity to sensation

And paranoid towards trust.

Entertaining daydreams

Like therapy with dolls

With such awoken eyes

Searching for the cause.

The ends and the extremes

Blend and balance well

With the overactive mind

Imprisoned in its shell.

From lofty declaration

To the bitterest debate,

Through endless troubled minds

And self-deceitful hate

Are woven little strings;

Patterns evermore complex

Down crevices of ecstasy

And mountains of distress.

The paragon of Being

Human always more or less

In chaos everlasting

Till blissful stateless death.

Burning or cradling,

Tender or rough,

Knowledge and wisdom,

Too little or too much.

One without another

Like everything is not,

As love is to lust

What gotten is to got.

And yet,

I wish you well

Please feel better

Keep me warm

Kiss me deep

Fall asleep

Let it go

Stress no more.

 

 

Streaming Life Anywhere

Judging value

In indiscriminate measure

Through the process

Of identifying constants

Amid variable personas.

Chaotic babble

Interwoven with emotions

Clouding personallities

In insepid debate

Signifying little.

Introspective hell

Latching onto safe platforms

Expressing the darkest depths

Of existential dread

In idle whispers.

Entertainment

Like an inconvenient memory

Signaling dire warnings

As questionable information

Presents itself in lace.

Daydreaming watchers

Wondering within access

On the possible implications

Of life on Mars

Or anywhere.

Complexity breeds

As simplifying destroys.

Any and all answers

Wither on

Or grow away.