Philosophy Poems Novels & Stories

I said in rhetorics with a smirk flickering on my features. "And isn't poetry a phantom script that measures and unveils the camouflaged," he added as we walked, our concentration rapt solely now in the discussion. "Ah! Now you're clearly just rigmaroling with your hefty words," I voiced and the faint rumble of a laugh rising heartily from my chest was not far off. "But Lade jokes aside, what motivates the need to be treading this line if you're not even facing the struggle and fighting the avalanches relentlessly?"

The faint light we observe might be minutes or even billions of years old, and by now, it may have vanished in the universe due to collisions, explosions, or other events. "Ultimately, everything, including humans, is destined to face death. Since the outcome is the same for all things, it emphasizes the importance of focusing on the process." She withdrew her hand, and the back of her hand was no longer illuminated by the setting sun. She smiled at Susan. "This is just something I came up with when I was bored. Do you think it's philosophical enough?" Susan leaned against the door frame. "Whether it's philosophical or not, I don't know. After all, I'm just an ordinary person who graduated m

A poem by Moxie, "Roses are red, viloets are blue....this stupid author has no update for you" A poem by Dante, "When it rains it pours, but hopefully not indoors...unless your author has dogs and dirt backyard...it makes keeping mud outside SUPER HARD"

Though the storm rocks our boats and the gentle wind eases our rows, our peace still ebbs and flows, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. In a of white and black world, let's be just enough to repel these filthy shades of grey. Karma is a poet, so please the arms that make you less a prey, because until our eyes are fixed beyond the sun, our nostrils will know less roses than our skin the thorns. So let us milk the cow while it is still dawn, for the night comes, when only the diligent will be able to admire the milk he weighed. Even if the sun rises on our evening wake, time will surely set on our wasted years, then our

They open the new submissions, journals, sketches, coded dreams, solar poems, sky-written vows. They place them inside. Then they bow their heads. Not in grief. But in reverence. Because they know: The fire is not in the pages. It is in the choice to write them. So I keep burning. Through drought and war. Through joy and birth. Through quiet revolutions that look like hugs, and wild ones that sound like protests. Every time someone chooses compassion over control… I spark. Every time a young girl dares to say, “I have something to say”…

The most astonishing thing was that every title tried to minister to me so much more that I was confused. There is a poem titled 'HOPE', there was 'VAGUE AS AIR', 'DEATH AND IT'S PEACE' and other incredible poems all written by Trevor. I read each poem and felt as if he was talking to me directly. His choice of words, sentence construction and presentation of life scenarios embedded in words is just beautiful. Now this guy was not just a devilishly handsome man with a great sense of humor but a writing god. Then I came across the piece I termed my best. I read it over and over again muttering each line. The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus...

It was an order meant to be fulfilled immediately. The driver nodded. "I can try but I am not sure I am going to easily locate the place. But I can try. There is no harm in trying, right?" "There is absolutely no harm in trying out something new. After all, there came a time when the blind guys thought of spending time with the deaf girls in the evening. A time when the glory that left came back in a simpler form that only a few could understand. Even in the darkness, men still make merry. Even in the light, women still cry. And yet, many do not call that a poem but an epic fall from glory. What do you call it? How do you see it? Do you see it as an epic fall from glory or a poem about a man

"Twinkling spoons in a teapot's dream, Jellyfish waltz in a cosmic stream. Pickles hummed a secret rhyme, Moonbeams whispered cheese and thyme. Penguins danced on rainbow clouds, Unicorn whispers in mushroom crowds. Bananas wore polka dot shoes, Stars played chess, swapping hues. Toasters sang opera in the key of green, Elephants tap-danced on a trampoline. Butterflies knitted socks for the moon, Balloons recited a backwards cartoon. In a world where logic takes a break, Nonsense reigns, a merry mindquake. A symphony of chaos, oh what a treat, In this realm of whimsy, where absurdities meet." The smile on her face was oddly serene as she sang, her eyes gleaming with an enigmatic gleam. The w

“The world needs the purity you preach.” “That we live, you mean? We’ve lost our essence in the material world—power money, wars, betrayals, lies, and secrets,” he led us to a garden with beautiful flowers among the rocks. “Look, the flowers coexist with the stones in the path, adapting; they didn’t fight the rock, they just settled, taking their rightful place.” “In philosophy, that's beautiful, but in practice.” I ran my hands through my hair. “You know why I came.”

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!