It wasn't me.
I am too late and so are you.
Maybe our parents also were
And those before them too.
Does it matter?
We are all failures
The generation of expectations
Now all washed out and dried up.
Last efforts for lost causes
Final notes of the funeral march.
It is we who will preach the services
And lower Mother Earth's casket.
After that, who will be there
To bury us in the end?
When there's nothing left to bury
And no Earth to lay us in?
‣ If u were a human, & if I would have an opportunity to bury u alive
‣ I would be more than pleased to do so, no doubt
‣ the only thing I would let u take with u is a cheap pocket knife
‣ but it's not to help u make it out (it's unable to help)
‣ 'cause the casket would be the metal one & its lid would be sealed
‣ this would be the ending of ur story
‣ get dead naturally or get killed
‣ I don't think I would ever regret or feel sorry
When beauty comes in your life unannounced
Getting shivers from just your name being pronounced
Traveling emotions will always be scary
Even though some is pain that you needed to bury
Holding back is not the melody I would want to play
I’ve been waiting to love someone till i'm old and grey
I might not be a complete human piece
But after all this searching, your heart was released
I am on time’s side, hoping this could be it
My heart could fully be fixed, only if we do not quit
Your eyes were just enough to draw me in
Hoping craving your body is not a sin
Waiting might crawl up your spine
But my apologizes, I think you’re supposed to be mine.
you're walking on the edge even though you can't really walk.
i'm walking the line but i know we can't talk.
i just wish we could bury this before your casket.
what have i become. .
what have you made of me, mother?
what have you sculpted, brother?
carved to perfection,
into an ivory soulless wreck,
a hopeless mess, high off morbidity and agony,
carved to perfection,
to attend to your lavish needs,
of a stripped youth,
hidden under a blood stained carpet floor,
and you do it so lovingly,
as i reach for air,
when you've buried me
six feet under.
take my secret
and bury it in
you can visit it
just don’t give
it too much
it feeds on and is
it will not hestitate
to steal the
spot light from
there are days where I worry I have done nothing but tangle myself in regrets
I keep writing poems about my past hoping to cleanse it out of my system
because most days I feel more shame than growth and I forget what all of the rain was for
I was almost better, but almost doesn't count for much
I'm tired of watching the sun rise and fall from the same place hoping somone will save me from myself
my thoughts are so loud I'm burying myself in them
but something inside of me has survived all of the suffering and still wants to carry on
something in me knows that this is not the end
i need to
or these words
like my # of sins
Oh wont someone sing a
song for me of summers
that seem on looking back
a long time
Of my love and I and the summer we did share together distant memory
long since has
All but memories now left
to dreams at night dreams
I have of her and of all my
Won't someone sing a song for me of a love destined not
to last for sickness and
took my sweetheart away no more to be left to memories of once I lived and loved a girl so
I have a dream one day we'll be together again and It's a dream that's keeping me
through my dreams I live my life again I see my sweetheart and hold her hand
Oh won't someone sing a song to remember my sweetheart and
of my dedication to my wife that we once shared a
My Dream one day someone a Poem I wrote and they'll write of Helen and I and life together
dead hydrangea, it's intricate and beautiful
as one in bloom
it reminds me of human being
it has many ways of look -
purple, white, pink,
but we're different cause the beauty does not come with us
when we die
just thinking of what happens to dead body -
it's losing its beauty, skin's turning black,
lips're peeling back from teeth,
face is starting to bloat -
the love we felt once - getting forgotten -
the hate we had - vanishing in shroud -
while the flower we got from lovers -
we're recalling 'till the end
but we're still similar -
human keeps his secrets to the grave
as hydrangea does with its tangled petals -
we're complicated - it's all that i could find in common
between the misarable, merciless tyrants
and the purest, decent thing