Blackpill The Ennui of Solitude

[Eremetic]

Within my mind's dim cavernous recesses
My thoughts echo into nothingness
As reason flees on shadow-swollen wings
Leaving dormant only dormiveglian states
That drag me down to psychic leaden depths

No moon or sun can pierce this pall of grey
Where neural networks unwind in slack disarray
Undulating vortexes of dendrite and spine
Converge upon the singularity of despair
From which emerges a umbrage-shrouded mind

Alone yet teeming with invisible woe
I cry unseen in this solipsistic show
No hand extends to lift my languid head
As burdened Atlas, I this world alone must bear
While in gloom's engulfment my soul lies dead

 

[based_meme]

@Orzmund You have some competition on your turf.

 

[GENSHIT CHIMPACT]

Your genitals are nothing more than a wound

 

[suicidecase]

I used to write bad poetry back in the day, I respect the grind.

My favourite poem is called "Solitude":

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

And I always liked this poem entitled "Ennui":

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

Both written by females.

 

[BornToLose]

Leave the big words to one per stanza, not one per every two lines, is my advice.