Nihilistic Poetry Novels & Stories

“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.

The ancient despair washed across creation like a relentless, suffocating tide, drowning the instinct to survive. Aurora staggered, her silver aura flickering like a dying candle. The Architect dropped heavily to one knee, her complex mathematical frameworks shattering into static. Elias struggled to draw breath, and even the luminous heart of the Source trembled. Nihilus wasn't launching an assault. He wasn't wielding cosmic fire or shattering dimensions with raw force. His mere existence was enough to unravel the tapestry of life. He was the First Ending—the ultimate belief that nothing mattered, the absolute certainty that every single story should end before it even had a chance to begin

Honestly, the whole thing could’ve been written by a pretentious fortune cookie, and I’d still have to write about it. I hated poetry. Not the kind that carved its way into your chest, forcing you to feel something real—no, that kind I could respect. I hated this kind. The kind that was peeled apart under fluorescent lights, dissected and drained of all beauty until it lay limp and meaningless. Until it became nothing more than a rigid formula. And I especially hated it when Cristiano Wright was the one grading my suffering. Last night, I had sat at my desk, notebook open, mind empty.

The smell of blood was an undertone to burnt flesh and hair, and I was a step away from throwing up all over their feast. "There is no feast without cruelty," Uisdean whispered into my ear. "I don't think this was what Nietzsche meant when he said that," I shot back; earning a surprised smile from him. "Poetry." He waved his hands expansively. "Just as I said in your dream; words can have so many meanings." "Nietzsche was a philosopher, not a poet," I ground out. "I think most philosophers have the souls of poets," he countered, "but that is... what's the human expression? Next to the point?"

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!

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.

"Show us that non-existence is preferable to existence, that isolation is better than connection, that reduction leads to greater truth than enhancement." What followed was less combat than philosophical demonstration. The Unraveling entity attempted to prove its nihilistic position by systematically unmaking portions of local reality, showing how the removal of complexity led to simpler, supposedly more honest states of being. But each demonstration was met by confederation forces who immediately began rebuilding what had been destroyed, showing how creation could respond to destruction, how cooperation could restore what isolation had torn down. "You rebuild errors," the entity insisted, i

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