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We finish digging our graves, dug
to what we consider three feet, but
we don’t worry about measurements.

These deaths are negligible.

Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving,
we gaze at each other. We both nod,
toss our shovels aside and walk over
to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist
and drags it across the grass. I hoist
mine into my arms and shuffle over.

They’re both dumped into the graves,
and we fill both the holes. He walks to
his car without hesitation. I pause a
moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t
offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing
there in silence. I catch up to him, throw
my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.

He drops me at my home, and I go inside
to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I
blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife.
She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with
a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over,
does not notice the mess. I ***** up the
stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.

As the water warms, the mirror reveals
someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is
me. I get under the warm stream, letting it
clean away what is left of me.

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Ray Dunn Mar 2019
Stop burying yourself.
You’re under so much pressure,
you’re about to become
the stones we
Stress be like that sometime haha
Blade Maiden Dec 2018
Since I already knew
I'd die of a broken heart
I made preperations
treating my death like art

Stop worrying
I took care of everything
the guests and the burying
even ordered flowers in early spring
I'm still around. If anyone was actually wondering where I've been I apologize. I missed posting on here so I might get back to it more often. No promises. I hope you, whoever reads this, are having a good day, week, month.. and if not, hang in there. Just hang in there.
Kaede Feb 2018
I will let you live in
Every stanzas of my poems.
Until you lost your breath
In my real world.

People will read and,
Learn to love you.
They will ask who is this
I define in my every word.

You want to tell them
Who you are but you realized,
You were shut there,
Lonely, in that space.

Then you will start to hate me
For burying you to deep,
But dear, in every bruise and
Ache you caused to me,
You just don't know
You are already digging
And living in your own grave.
This is part A for The Sad Thing about being a Poem.
Pauline Morris Jan 2016
There is an emotional graveyard in my back yard
It's for all the feelings that die, and I discard

Innocence was the first to fall
But isn't it always that one for us all

Happiness fallowed soon after that
Because my life quickly turned to crap

Trust was the next to bite the dust
For self preservation it was a must

Ignorance was the very next one
I swiftly learned life's lessons
Under the gun

Love has entered and been dug up from the ground
But each time I bury it a little father down

Sympathy can also out there be found
It's right over there it's the biggest mound

Desire and all the stuff I crave
Is right here in this shallow grave

Lust that I mistook for love one to many times
Deep is it's hole it was such a vicious crime

Joy also has it's place among the markers
It couldn't be saved by the therapist or doctors

Anger was the last that went underground
I just couldn't take any more of it's horrific sound

You'll notice pain, agony, and strife
Very much still have lots of life
So also is fear and my darkness
I have placed their markers after all I'm heartless

And that last little plot way over there
Under the Weeping Willow dug with such care
It's stone only has dates and dashes
That's for my shell when it finally crashes
For it will be hollow void of all emotion
To lie in that grave will be such a promotion
Äŧül Dec 2014
Some lessons come the bitter way,
I hope there was some better way,
Some way of learning these things,
I do not want to hurt again my wings,
Taking this as my incompetence sign,
I prepare with a heavy heart to resign,
Burying the broken promises that hurt me.

Some hopes that had been on a high,
I regret that they were not as high,
Some heights which had been dizzying,
I regret that they were sickening,
False promises were made to me again,
I feel the assurances to be false now,
Burying the broken promises that hurt me.

Some words in darkness now languish,
I wish that moonlight now descends,
Some paths that lead to the cliffs be lit in red,
I wish that I may identify the dangers,
Stuck in the purgatory I feel closer to hell,
I wished to be saved and I wished to be heard,
But nobody can now hear me yelp,
I should now be doing myself a favor,
I'll bury the broken promises that hurt me.

Some glasses to be filled again with wine,
I must empty them down my throat,
Some more wine of morose poetry is there,
I must empty it and become sober,
My mind must become calmer and safer,
I shouldn't feel guilty because I didn't forget,
I'll just bury the broken promises once more.

No I don't feel as weak to take to alcoholism as yet,
I have a heart of diamond which can't be broken,
Not that stupid girl can't manage to break my heart,
But I have promises to keep before forever I sleep,
Promise to keep a smile at least once a day on my lips.
A promise to keep I made to myself after my rebirth,
I'll just move on burying the broken promises that hurt me.
My HP Poem #700
©Atul Kaushal
pixels Jun 2014
And when I die,
surely from sin and dirt and living-

Do not bury me in white.
Do not brush my hair and paint my nails.
Do not shine my heels and iron my dress.
Do not speak of me so bittersweetly.

Bury me in lingerie with frayed lace.
Muss my hair and smear my lipstick.
Scuff my boots and rip my tights.
Speak of me with thinly-veiled vehemence.

Do not love me,
when I am dead.
For none did during life,
other than in the glow of a t.v.
that only played to hide the moans.

Do not bury an imposter
and spin tales of a sweet ******
who died too soon.
Bury a *****
and rage that you were not the one
to finally silence her.

— The End —