Existence

This was a story of the time a man had told me my feelings were not true. He told me that most of the world would never know me. I wish to prove him wrong with my writing. I surely exist.

A few days ago, I met a man.
"your life does not exist,"
                                       He told me.
I pleaded for answers,
          Yet I found none.
                                                        For what,
          Could a man be,
                                If his words weren't together?
For what,
              Is a mind,
                     When the words,
                                        Fall like ladders?
             What does it mean,
             To not exist?
Is it pain?
                                                                Is it freedom?
              It's merely a nothingness.
                          And I surely,







                                                                           Do not exist.

Author's Note

I have a few grammatical mistakes. Please overlook them.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I don't know. You asked a good question in the poem. I like to stay low profile. Being known can be worst than being nothingness. Being private is a good place to be. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[W R Stowe]

Over looked but people talk about people they don't even know if you ask me they don't exist except within their own minds.And you have proven him wrong you penned your existance

[TheLostMind]

Well, the answer is simple... When your Time comes calling.. When you smell death near you, if you can smile and embrace Him, then you "existed". What existence means to you is personal and varies from person to person.. Yet, each day before you sleep, if you have a smile on your face, then you exist.. Don't let opinions affect your thoughts.. People are here to comment...

[Tam Warink]

I do not yammer the lament of grammar but overlook your field of words O woe. That creature, the focus of your lament, seems lost within the mists of its own existence and stumbling upon your own (seemingly) stolid self seeks to constrain. But, I see, figurativly, that you are as a window without a room; no boundaries define the essense of you. No, for woe is eternal and without measure. Acknowledged by all in good time. So be patient and nuture well your heart for love, life and woe shall never part.

100 hearts to nurture woe

[the writer of woe]

Wow, very poetic! Thanks a lot Tam!

[Tam Warink]

You, are inspirational. :)

[the writer of woe]

Thank you!

[Sir_Lansonlot]

I thought this was perfect. Said it aloud with my own voice and thoroughly enjoyed it.

[the writer of woe]

Thanks Sire!