Existentialpoetry Stories

Maybe growth is the art of losing gently.

This poem is a stark meditation on decay, showing a pile of trash turning into a statement of nature's inevitable fate through rot, flies, and larvae. It confronts disgust and amusement in a clinical yet mythic way, exposing decomposition as both a process and an essence.

He Who Speaks Is Not Himself is a philosophical dark poem that explores power, identity, and the unseen forces that speak through humanity. Moving through gods, kings, devils, and commoners, the poem questions whether authority, morality, and evil truly belong to the speaker-or merely pass through them. Blending themes of oppression, inner conflict, and spiritual decay, the poem presents a world where words become weapons, truth hides in mystery, and men act as puppets to forces they scarcely understand. It challenges the reader to resist before asking, to question speech itself, and to confront the abyss that lies within. This poem is not a sermon, nor a prophecy-it is a mirror. And what speaks through it may not be who you think. - C.C.

There are feelings that slip through language-emotions too vast for a single word, moments too fleeting to define. The Atlas of the Soul is a collection of poetic entries that seeks to give them names, mapping the uncharted territories of the human heart. From the quiet ache of nostalgia to the warmth of unexpected joy, from the weight of unspoken goodbyes to the lightness of fleeting wonder, this book is a lexicon of emotions-both familiar and forgotten. Each entry is a window into the depths of what it means to feel, to remember, and to exist. For those who have ever searched for the right words to describe what lingers in their chest, The Atlas of the Soul offers a compass. A guide. A name for every feeling you've ever known but never spoken. So tell me-how much of your heart remains unnamed? And are you ready to find the words?

Inside of Me: A confession of breaking an internal prison and discovering a different branch of reality. We Believe in Love: Deconstructing humanity's greatest myth: why we seek love outside ourselves when we are its ultimate source. The Architect of Madness: A provocative challenge to the Creator and the System: are we living stones in a wall of coldness, or merely "bots" serving a global illusion? Immortal Flower: When life turns into purgatory and every breath is an ammonia burn. A raw manifesto of exhaustion and the thirst for absolute silence. ***Rendered into English by Gemini With love, LunarChild of ChristmasLight English & Russian Version _______________________________ Внутри меня: Исповедь о том, как разрушить внутреннюю тюрьму и найти иную ветку реальности. Мы верим - есть любовь: Разрушение главного мифа человечества: почему мы ищем любовь снаружи, когда сами являемся её источником. Архитектор безумия: Провокационный вызов Творцу и системе: мы - живые камни в стене бессердечности или просто «боты» на службе у глобальной иллюзии? Бессмертник: Когда жизнь превращается в чистилище, а каждый вдох - в ожог аммиаком. Предельно честный манифест об усталости и жажде тишины.

A birthday isn't always a celebration. Sometimes it's just proof that you survived another year. If your birthday doesn't feel special anymore, you'll understand this piece.

This collection isn't about you- because I didn't get attached.

Thank you @cwij_verse for writing with me, it was a heartwarming experience! Collaboration of two poets continents apart, sharing deep melancholy that makes us feel alive.

You think you've survived, yet something still pulls you toward the ache. You soothe your heart, whispering that it's nothing - soft, light, harmless. You convince yourself it's free will, strength of mind, a calm command. But it's a bitter fruit stuck in your throat - neither swallowed nor spat out, only lingering in pain. You try to smile though your lips tremble from exhaustion. You look into the mirror, asking: Do I pierce through it, or does it pierce through me? You reach out to yourself, touching your own solitude, only to find a blurred reflection. You ask your torn heart, How much endurance do you have left? Life keeps coming for you - relentless, unapologetic. It hurls you against the wall, only to bend you halfway, then forces you to rise again, like a sword reclaimed. You spin within your own orbit, watching repetition tighten its grip. You lose, you are lost, you search. It's a revelation without clarity - like a theft in broad daylight by a blind thief. And then, a faint light disturbs you; you fear it might expose you. You stand on the edge of dawn - and extinguish it. Still, you keep trying.

I bleed into verses not in veins

Shitty Poetry of The Girl Everybody Hates

A journey through the fragments of self, the questions we hide, and the echoes we chase. A raw reflection of identity, love, and the masks we wear.

This is a poem of someone who is tired of living

Go on and read this poem, then tell me how it goes. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 🎊🎊🎊

I hate parties.

> We are not born to fit the molds we're given. I am not who they expect. I am not what they define. I've been bullied, ignored, underestimated. But I taught myself. I created myself. From trash to truth, from silence to poetry. This is my confession. My reflection. My rebellion. I Am Lonewolf.

Apne favorite manan ke liye kuch likha hai yahan tak aa gaye ho to andar jaaka padhlo.

Life's got layers. It's beautiful and messy, a journey and a gamble, a mystery and a meaning and full of chances we don't always get to choose. This poem invites you to consider the value we carry, the choices we don't control, and the hope that-whether held, borrowed, or tossed-we still matter.

I don't paint with precision. I paint with everything I feel. This is the story of what it means to love in color - wildly, sincerely, and without a guarantee of being understood. Told in six quiet pieces, this poetic journey follows one heart's attempt to give everything it is... even when it doesn't fit. For anyone who's ever offered too much, and still hoped to be seen.