I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Intro: This poem descends into the moment betrayal is no longer hidden and rage learns to speak. What begins as loyalty rots into illusion, and from that fracture, wrath is born—not as chaos, but as intention. Read with caution: this is the anatomy of a soul pushed past forgiveness.
Outro: And when the echoes fade, what remains is not victory, but silence—the kind that forces reflection. Wrath may feel like release, but it leaves scars deeper than betrayal ever did. This poem does not ask for forgiveness or justification; it stands as a witness to what happens when pain is left to fester and the soul chooses fire over healing. What comes after wrath is the question that lingers.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
In the relentless tick of the wristwatch, time reveals its cruel indifference—Father Time eroding youth, flesh, and fragile hopes into dust, while death lingers like an inevitable embrace. This piece confronts the quiet terror of running out of moments for authentic love, crushed instead by the heavy, hollow weight of lust and repeated defeats. What begins as mysteriously alluring (“enigmatic”) slowly fades from the heart, leaving an emptiness as elusive and hard to reclaim as the raw, heartfelt loyalty woven into Nas’s “One Love” on Illmatic—a track that, amid Queensbridge grit and loss, captures a deeper, street-forged bond that’s painfully rare in a world of fleeting connections.
In the hush after the last tick fades from the wrist, patience crumbles like forgotten ash—love’s enigmatic glow snuffed out not by drama, but by the slow grind of defeats, lust’s bruising weight, and Father Time’s indifferent pull toward the abyss.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
This poem is for people haunted by eyes that once sparkled with wonder, now overflowing with ruin.
She chose and obsessed—to go to the soul cage. I wrote this once I saw: love without real caution is just code waiting to flood. Faith sank deeper when pretence ended and her obsession met my disarray. No sermon here just the confession of waves that overwhelmed what she pursued.
Conclusion
Love that surges without invitation is violence disguised as depth—my rage proved it merciless. She came as mermaid, seeking hidden seas; she left hollow, drowned by what I could not contain. In the silence after the flood, I hold only echoes and the weight of what I almost kept. If this stirs you, it is freedom calling—love true never refuses the mercy of goodbye
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
The poem “Eminently…” by Joseph Le Artist captures the double-edged nature of ecstasy: an overwhelming force that initially electrifies the soul and psychology but ultimately acts as a curse, pinning the speaker down like a fallen angel chained to earth. This intoxicating high feeds vices, nightmares, and a once-heartless existence, revealing itself as bondage rather than freedom. The true turning point arrives through deliberate purging—a painful yet liberating process of confronting and expelling demonic inner forces.
What emerges is genuine healing: an intimate reconnection with soberness that hushes chaos, restores emotional depth, and transforms a hardened heart into one capable of renewal. The core takeaway is clear—unchecked ecstasy leads to spiritual and psychological imprisonment, while intentional release and grounded clarity pave the way to authentic wholeness.In practical terms, the poem offers a roadmap for anyone wrestling with destructive highs, whether emotional, addictive, or obsessive.
First, recognize when euphoria becomes a chain by tracking its signs (racing thoughts, detachment, escalating vices) and choosing to purge rather than indulge—through detox, shadow work, physical release, or creative expression like poetry itself. Then, cultivate steady intimacy with soberness via daily grounding practices (mindfulness, nature, meaningful connections) and consistent inner battles against lingering patterns. If the struggle feels overwhelming, seek support from therapy, communities, or spiritual guidance. The poem’s hopeful arc reminds us: healing isn’t about avoiding highs entirely but refusing to let them rule. By embracing the purge as sacred work, what once felt like a curse becomes the catalyst for a more resilient, authentic life.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
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