Don't stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
She plays her skin like a violin
Armed with a shiny metal bow.
She moves back and forth, tone deaf as death.
This music has no beauty to show.
Passion is bled with no words said.
For this song is just instrumental.
And when the girl falls down without a sound.
She can't make it to the recital.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
She wears a little gown,
her body feels so cold.
Soaked up by the water,
like the stories- untold.
Here and there with some scars,
her hands so violet.
It's the end that she chose,
It's too late to regret.
Her eyes are wide open,
the look she has is sad.
No desire to live,
She chose to be dead.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC