Posted in life, philiosophy, Poems, thoughts

existence

This existence is a translucent question mark

wavering in the absence of absence

that is absent from those that are not

but hovering words and hesitant breaths

upon the surface of what we believe to be

… floating

we are but feathers, floating.

We name what we see

and so it is as it never was

or will be

but what we dream

in our slumber of life

, for what is death but an awakening,

rebirth, we are but born into a world

that is nothing more than the chambers of our minds,

illusory,

stable footing that is built upon instability,

the labyrinth of the labyrinth,

the spiralling spiral of concentric thought;

We are but the centre, the core of all that is

not

but the continual continuation of continuity itself,

endlessly ending what has no end,

the endless eternity of eternity ending

and beginning in, what is, never was,

the eye opening eye of a blind existence

is a translucent question mark…..

 

-Eva M.M.

This is one of my favorite things I have ever written so I just hope everybody reads it super slowly, multiple times and gets all the meaning out and though I adore constructive criticism, I will probably just ignore it on this poem… but if you are confused I would love to talk for hours in the comments about it all.

” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”

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Author:

I am a young and enthusiastic writer, fresh out of highschool and into college at IUSB. I babysit and work and live life to it's fullest. I write. I read. I do yoga. And plan to become. Yoga intructers as well. I grew up on a farm and can't,t wait to move back to the country in my tiny house I have already planned out. Sometimes I'm a little melodramatic but rarely. I'm a spiritual healer, a hopeless romantic, a book worm, and very nostalgic. Thanks for stopping by.

4 thoughts on “existence

  1. Nice! What I got from it was that the only thing we know for sure in this life is that we exist. Everything we know is from our own creation, which is only real because we said it was. This poem reminds me of the teachings of Don Miguel Ruiz

    Liked by 1 person

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