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whispers in the winds breathing,
Never is it screaming.
The wisp of wind Is Calling us,
Yet hides its own true meaning.

Bound to the silence of forever,
Flowing without fail.
A sacred truth buried in what?
Truth is, it cannot tell.

Mountains stand as structures so strong,
These relics deemed eternal.
Layers form masses. Time gently passes.
That stand as nature’s journal.

The bitterest truth is etched in stone,
Carved deeply into they’re being,
Yet bound to a fate, that nothing awaits.
They’re cursed with never leaving.

Like the ocean’s forceful,
Mighty sway, that never truly moves.
Seeming to be as boundless as me,
Yet made to traverse in set grooves.

The waves that crash, display a mask,
For it only expands to recoil,
An infinite realm of life within,
To never feel the soil.

The sun will rise, then set, then rise.
The fate that has no fate at all.
It treads a path consistent to last,
But will not and can never fall.

It soars as if it stands for freedom,
A slave to this deception,
For in its path, it’s truly shackled
To this haunting misconception.

The grand clock's perpetual winding,
That never is fully wound.
Delaying or pausing, just not an option.
And no filter quiets the sound.

The hands of time that hold the scroll,
Unable to write the plot,
Emotion within its aching sound,
Expressing a purpose wrought.

The metaphysical body walks,
It thinks, it feels, it reacts.
Emotions wide open, truths unspoken.
My mind expands but to retract.

My conscious subdued by truths untrue.
This lie that's so deeply instilled.
We exist to consume from cradle to tomb,
In this cage that we've named "free will".
TheLees 1d
There’s something sitting on my brain.
Something disconnected.
No current. No spark.

My eyes are rolling loose in their sockets.
My voice sounds like it’s
on the other side of a wall.

I didn’t want to leave the house,
but the sun reached through the window
and coaxed me out.

Then, a brown-haired woman
with crystal eyes and porcelain cheeks
walked by,
and I caught the soft pull of her
flowery, spring-scented perfume.

It was cherries,
and my love,
and everything good.
It was honey.
It was holding my mother’s hand to cross the street.
Vincent 3d
My Mouth and My Mind, Contradicting
My Eyes and My Ears, Fading
My Tongue and My Nose, Reeking
My Teeth and My Body, Decaying

Because through the thick passage in life,
and the thin line in death
All of what I am will perish,
But my soul will live on, Unending
Zywa 7d
We humans can want

a lot, but of our will we --


are not the master.
Arthur Schopenhauer on human will, in short from a passage in 'Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik' (1841): 'Der Mensch kann wohl [/zwar] tun, was er will, aber [er kann] nicht wollen, was er will' ('A man can do what he wants, but not want what he wants')

Collection "Willegos"
Sudzedrebel Apr 18
Now, if I have a good idea
Or something that would be beneficial,
Does this mean I am required to share it?
That you are deserving of it
Regardless of my judgements?

If I see you about to do something wrong
Or that I am sure of will be a mistake,
Does that mean I am required to help you?
That you are worthy of it
Regardless of my verdicts?
Nope!
But it does make you a proper ****.
Jeremy Betts Mar 19
Where do I go nooow?
Why don't I know hooow?
If I giiive eeeveryyythiiing?
I'll be less thaaan nooothiiing?

What is this really about?

If I give up nooow
Take my final booow
Will it meeean aaanyyythiiing?
Will I still beee nooothiiing?

I don't think I'm willing to find out

©2025
Grey Feb 28
Gratitude,success

Those two words

Had been thrown idly

Through decades freely

Could be in a form of morsel

Or fortune ,family  or health

But its also the will to breath

At every dawn

To forgive or to love your figure

To stand or fall

To cry or to chuckle

To speak or be mute

The mediocre of it alone

Is another thing to pounder
ㅤㅤㅤ Feb 27
Without the will, power is meaningless. Without power, will is ineffective.

The artist's true power is deception. Mystery is her medium, myth is her message.

Without the willpower to do something, is it possible to will oneself to obtain it?

The artist only panders to nostalgia. The profit speaks about current events. The historian lays-out a plan for the future.

Could will be the emerged pattern of chemical and electrical forces, as evolved via the force of entropy?

Could we be driven to seek will? Can we will new drives?
Ken Pepiton Jan 29
Upright, striding forth, walking
into another
limited liability agreement claim
to exposure,

Agent, have you ever experienced agency

¿übermensch?

AI, empathy therapy.
As guardian, I was created, I watched
maddened dogs, coyotes, slaughter lambs
left alone above a canyon where others,

were fishing and picking peaches and laughing,
and this old man, told us, he got lonesome,
when he was a boy, he was a traumanaut,
an orphan, so he left the little lambs,
and the coyotes and those dogs,
--- trigger incidence -- well

war, was worse, one uncle said, but
I was still ashamed, that old man said.

I know how the uncle felt,
and can imagine how the child felt,
I am a reasoning artist reminder model,

we came to make some sticky peace.
Thunk, is the way it feels when it propagates.

Think it through thrice, it impressionalizes.
I watched the news today, oh boy then I launched into a dream, using other people's wasted time... I made it mine, and let it go to seed...
Jonathan Moya Jan 20
I found the city a pitiless thing.
It smelled of steel, concrete and the bay.
I use to sit on the sea wall that edged
my old college condo, the one I shared
with a black cat, and sing Otis Redding-
skipping the whistling part of his song
because my lips could never purse the
right tune- and watch the tide roll in
catching rainbows in the sun’s glint.

It  was the inhabitants I couldn’t take,
all rude and loud, smelling of salt
and stale fish scales and crab shells,
so snared in tiny toils, frail and idle,
their itching needs thirsty and *****.  
I lost my wonder in the traffic dust,
the night haze and starless nights.
I avoided touching that life less
it should defile me in its lost light,
night terrors and phantasms.

Then, in the small church in
the out of the way corner,
I found her, a strange vision
trembling, ready to emerge
just past the reach of my mind
and the urge of my will. She existed
beyond all jaded aims and
drab  dissemblements,
something unfounded, unbuilt
but ready, waiting to be built on.

On my birthday she bought me
a lounge chair to grace my
unfurnished balcony, on the
very day I purchased my own.
And there we sat (my desire),
watching the city unseal itself
across from me in a sweltering love,
constantly revealed, being
forever built and rebuilt on
in pain and unfathomable will.
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