Nihilism Poetry Novels & Stories

wonder plants. perfumed by poetry or—philosophy. the Ecosystem, the still neon-twinkling thought of. the world: you & me & this apparition of faces, Notre Dame burning out of time w/ Kreymborg flowers all phrasally rooted to the print composition of ‘vers libertines’ in Others. where is the Other in The Waste Pound & Other Poems? subjected to, quarterly slicing open, the social subjectile: my dear abiotic of the super blood wolf moon, Make it new!

“What mom? How can you say that--” She gave me her phone. There was a poem he had written. “I’d love it if you read this and think that I feel anything for her-- “She was my life, she left, life left. Never had anything, even my soul has left. Being a boy was never the best thing, When the only girl I ever loved left. Do you know that feeling? When there is nothing to see? Because you just don’t know What you should be? When there is no reason to live

That night, Nelly did not sleep. She did not wait. She did not cry. She thought. And thinking, for Nelly, was not a habit— it was a weapon. A weapon unseen, unheard, but when used… it always struck true. She sat on the bed, her back against the pillow, and whispered: “I know you will return, Adel— even if my waiting grows long, even if my suffering deepens, even if your heart hardens. I know Naomi beside you will not let you feel my absence.

'Really, I think there are people who want to reach immortality, or have it accepted. 'Well, all those shouldn't be your reasons. The companion has come closer, expressing your-self. The only reason you should write is because you need to. You know what Bukowski said, 'Don't do it.' The poem or story has to be for you without caring what anyone says.' I began to see nodding faces, including those of my two unexpected visitors, who were perhaps surprised at my approach. 'Okay, what topics is the poetry about?' A brainstorming followed, where some of the most typical ones emerged: human nature, love, death, the passage of time, suffering. In some cases it was pointed out that any element of th

"Clement's mother moved out of the country. I heard she is married to her white lover but I am not sure about that piece of information. I have told you what I know. Can you leave me to think about my life for a while?" "Sure," I said. "Don't think about it too much so you won't drown in your own imagination." I left the hall. I left Goodness as I wandered alone in my thoughts. A week ago, I overheard one of my classmate telling her friend that Clement's misbehavior was due to his atheist father who had rejected religion in the same way my Dad had done. As I thought about Clement and how he felt living with a drunk father who was an atheist, I remembered a poem I read some days ago by a Nige

"Since you walked away, how many places have become vain and meaningless, like lights in the day. like lights in the day. Afternoons that were a niche for your image, music in which you always awaited me, words of that time, I will have to break them with my hands. In what hollow will I hide my soul so that it will not see your absence that like a terrible sun, without sunset, shines definitive and merciless? Your absence surrounds me like a rope around my throat, the sea that sinks."

⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫ In the age of despair, with the dream of life Wandered far away If you only knew Even if it is ashes, even if it is dust Nothing comes of it Dreams are a distance, hands are empty Believe me, you were too And yet he fell asleep Even after losing China Every night of worship, the eyes of the czar Put tears in the palm of your hand In the trap of hiccups, taking my name To me from my master If you asked, you would be too In the belief in love, what is understanding? What's up? What does the work of reason mean? There are millions of arguments against love As far as citations are concerned, they are not authentic Believe me, you were too And from the whole world, then to the foot of redem

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's rest for the old, Freedom to all

“The Collapse Weaver. You wove reality, Jessica, but it is flawed. Your hollowness is my triumph. Surrender, and reality ends in peace. Resist, and it burns in chaos.” Kade’s roar was a desperate cry, his claws slashing at Nihil, his love for Jessica a fire that burned through his pain, blood dripping from his wounds. “You’re not taking her! We’ll tear you apart first!” Nihil’s form pulsed, and the loom flared, weaving a vision that broke them: reality dissolved, the nexus ash, their bonds erased, Jessica’s hollowness consuming her, her companions’ screams fading into silence. The vision was a certainty, a future where love, hope, and existence were nothing.

Nathan stiffened instantly. “Lila…” “I feel it too.” The rage wasn’t enough anymore. Because hatred still required hope that punishment would fix something. This was worse. This was hopelessness. The network began flooding with new emotional signals. Pain always returns. Connection always ends. Love always becomes loss. My chest tightened painfully. No. No no no The emotional convergence wasn’t evolving toward violence anymore. It was evolving toward nihilism. And nihilism was harder to fight. Because rage still cared. Hopelessness didn’t.