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emily Feb 2023
I'm afraid to start writing again. I buried my soul in a casket expecting the demons to leave me alone but they never did, so I’ll write regardless of calming the storm behind my eyes. I’ll unearth the casket and fight this battle once again.
emma Apr 2021
when he was stolen from us,
the angels fell from heaven
their pure wings were ripped from their shoulders
the halos torn from atop their heads
thrown to the ash

shooting stars plunged
doomed for earth
one by one
then all together

she wept through the day
long into the night
suffocated by the thought
of remaining without him

with anger and sorrow
she blamed the angels
who were supposed to
defend him

life without him
would be a cold fire in the bitter winter
but with no warmth

we bid our farewell to the closed casket,
the barrier between us
as it lowered
into the dust
Jaicob Apr 2021
A dense mist hangs over the ground
Spreading tendrils over flora and fauna.
Clouds begin their quiet weeping.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.

A young girl hops along, splashing in puddles.
She trips and scrapes her knee...
Red liquid oozes through freshly ripped jeans.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.

After some time, the girl is all grown up.
A casket is lowered under the soil.
The girl, Tiffany Clear, walks home sobbing.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.
Amanda Kay Burke Aug 2020
Bury who I was
Down beneath the dirt
Laying rest to lost innocence I will never get back

Begin the funeral procession
Pay respects to another naive heart
Poet who felt too much
One dreamer who still believed true love existed

Close the casket
Lower me in
Girl I used to be is gone
Below six feet of mistrust and betrayal

She died the moment you left
Written 8-18-15
TheWitheredSoul Jun 2020
Oh slower!!
My dear blood
Dont rush i dont wanna do this fast.
I wanna feel it,
Every ounce,
Every droplet of red rushing out of my body screaming her name,

Within a closed Casket lies my head weary and dread where i rest all my thoughts and finally free myself from the torments of my haunted long lost love,
For i know my love wasnt fickle,
But for her It was just my love not hers.
I am not sucidal but thats what my mind feels everytime i start to write.
I do not encourage suicidal thoughts in anyway but the tinge of that darkness inevitably lies in everyone of us.
Itunu Apr 2020
Death came in the night,
slinking in the shadows, weaving in and out of darkness
and being stealthy
and he rested on the man's chest.
Death took cover in the blank black of night and breathed out an invisible net and caught,
and took and stole
Death came disguised as sleep and in the vulnerability he snatched away life
and left the part he didn't need in the bed
as a gift, a token
He surrounded existence by his inevitable arms and strangled it, ****** it out.
he came quietly and like silent destruction,
and scattered the lines of connection,
for the dead, and for the living.

Except but he didn't come just at night.
He came dancing through summer, enveloped in joy and white lilies,
Tap dancing through the mess he created.
Turning souls into memories.

Death followed them to the beach, and spread his cloak in the warm sand, and ran in to the water
after the boy
and pulled him into his arms under the gentle waves
then allowed him to float, lifelessly
like a bouy
He was erratic and unstoppable
Transforming summer days at the beach into unspoken family grief,
celebrated yearly
the day that he swam with the boy.

Death sipped a cool drink and waited, for what to take next.
He sat patiently at the pool, with open arms and a ticket with a name on it.
He was impulsive and careless.

Death sang a song and they danced to it,
each step deadlier than the next
they stood at his feet dressed in white covered in permanence.

He followed around with his cart
waiting to pluck the next one
from their line
and to leave behind
distorted and collective grief
set in a bed of white silk
in a casket

Death never slept, but decided which costume to wear.
he had many,
for every occasion.
But on her day,
He dressed as an errand run
disguised as a daily task to the store
he invited his friends;
accident and collision
and told them to wait at the traffic light
and when they saw him,
they ran to meet him in the middle.
And embraced each other,
leaving a mangled ball of assorted metals behind.
with crimson splashes, strewn clothes and full stops
and they laughed
and he carried his 5 tokens
and left behind his signature,
locked the box of their future
then swallowed the key.

And he didn't look back
as he danced beautifully
To everyone we've lost.
vanessa ann Apr 2020
what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.
—when life goes on but a loved one's had come to a standstill
Jack Trainer Mar 2020
The dimly black craggy door
That hides bottomless secrets
Opens and closes with hollow cruelty
And is silent as the moon

So difficult it is to knock and let myself in
Pushing is useless, like pulling the trigger with the safety on
I have dreams of passing the threshold
And scream “Echo” in that empty room

Hearing nothing in return
This is where I awaken, a dream in a dream
All the lies I’ve seen and wear as my skin
A fabulous mask without eyes or a mouth

My house is painted a rainbow of monochrome
One door, Two windows, A chimney and a garden gnome.
It is where you will find me
Hidden away under the floorboards

Looking through the cracks of gleaming pine
Shaped like man
White satin sheets to comfort me
And a new suit
A M Ryder Dec 2019
Acid on my casket
Buried with the hatchet
Of my fight with this life
I knew I could never hack it
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