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kat victoria Mar 22
our souls will probably wind up in the same cemetery.
two plots away.
too far to roll in my grave and see you.
just barely out of touch.
close,
but never quite close enough.
Peter Balkus Mar 1
I sometimes go to a cemetery
to see my friends,
ask them how they are doing,
are they okay.
And, they are always okay.
Cacho Jan 24
Arent you afraid of happiness?

At this glorious moments of youth escape won't be easy when our willing to win is gone, we hate what we'll become.

As our laughter evolves into madness and as our heart machines rise to sadness, we ignore our realistic surroundings, we light up the fire
as we admire the cadavers dancing. The town will flood in blood, it will unmask the rottenness of the animated corpse.

We'll be a beautiful and strange memory, monsters waking up ghosts from the doomed century, withered roses are her favorite, sweet and mad ****** reigns our team, we're rich in poverty. We abandoned the routine tale just for today, we cry of joy, happiness and bliss, yes, yes, we feel everything.

Smiling is hard when you know it won't last, Saturday nights and ******* race
what a blast. Be respectful as you jump over their graves, have mercy for the ones who rest, have sympathy for their miserable fate. We'll enjoy our liberty as well.

The Devil invocation brought us a loser angel, he doesn't know where he belongs, we welcomed him home, he didn't have the honor to meet the God, he's skeptic about the existence of his benevolence. Dear rejected angel, would you have the kindness to tell us, are we gonna gather an army or are we just gonna have a party?


So aren't you afraid of happiness?

**** interesting kid, putrid smell refreshing the air. We feel unstable to be the essence of rebellion, I don't know what's scarier us or them. Wildness and hormones at its best. What a rich environment of power and ridiculousness.

What is life now? What are we tonight? We don't know, we won't, we'll just be.

Hard laughs, my throat hurts, cheap axe to cut their bones, they found the elegance under this blood storm.The town became their ballroom, they weren't alive but they are living by the sentiment of this night.

The Morning turned us sad, the storm never painted a rainbow, the lost ghosts never found the beginning of the end, they'll be imprisoned with the forgotten chains, the skeletons never danced to the blues, we'll be forever ****** to be sane, our souls weren't never new.

We were the legends of youth...
Let's dance...
lauren Jan 10
ghouls roam the cemetery at midnight,
and the witch does her spells at three,
dead souls and hollowed bones merge
out of the soil, all this alacrity in a place
seemingly empty;
old man with his graying headstone,
and murdered woman under an angel
caught mid flight,
along with the others they awaken
and yawn as day slips into the night;
there are spirits at peace
alongside ones filled with rage,
then others who have forgotten
their hate, wandering calmly
in this place;
sipping upon the tea of sorrow,
they do a spring dance with grace,
crypts and graves closing as
the sun rises golden in the morn',
praying to slip past the final gate.
i adore visiting cemeteries and got inspired to write this after going to one nearby. the first two lines were taken from my 'poetry of the dead' creative writing assignment from last semester.
arian Nov 2018
Here I am;
Cursed.
With all these songs to dance along.
With the rain drenching the ground.
Standing alone
Here
In the cemetery;
Confused.
Should I sway along to the melody?
Or
Should I mourn over the loss of the ideals I never had
With the ghosts watching in front of me?
Or maybe
I could just leave them alone with themselves,
Letting them rest in whatever state they are in.
Still, I am here;
Standing,
Thinking,
Cursing,
Wishing
My mind
To rest.
julia Oct 2018
A car door slams,
when my destination is reached.
A gate, enclosing  generations of  
secrets, creaks when moved.  
A bell chimes four times,
ringing in the new hour.  

The Earthy smell of
freshly cut grass and roses
linger around my nose,
taken in by my lungs.

My steps crush fallen leaves
as I gently walk around.  
My eyes take in the many  
shades of grey on green  
along with purples, yellows, and reds
spread about on the grey.

My fingers scrape against a grey slab
worn away and rigid from tears.
To the right, is another slab
smooth and shining in the sun.
Off in the distance
a large tree sits,
with branches whispering in the wind.
The leaves watching the fallen ones,
before falling themselves.  

The wind softly sells faded stories
of the worn names on slabs
no longer distinguishable.
Flags wave with pride
saluting the fallen soldiers.

Paper windmills spin around
with bright colors reflecting  
the stolen childhoods
of children who never  
had the chance to live,
but now rest in dreams.  

The moon rises,
bringing in a muted light
that illuminates small details.
The crisp air tastes of musk and  
the sky is now at dusk.
I can feel a certain presence.
My favorite place, the only place,
that follows acceptance.
This was written during my freshman year of high school (2016) as a part of a poetry book project. This poem in particular is about my favorite place, the local cemetery. My poetry book had a theme of accepting yourself for who you are, and it is no coincidence that acceptance is the final stage of death.
stopdoopy Oct 2018
The air, saturated with a putrid smell.

Foul, like a dumpster in summertime.

They're monsters, skulking around in the Dead of Night.

Leaving, a sickness in their wake.

You're revolting.

The way you take.

Gnashing your teeth.

Trying, to pluck out little hearts.

Attempting, to creep up thighs.

Don't touch me, with those slimy fingers.

Go before you die, rotting beast.

We are not a cemetery.
A piece about how horrible men can be, also partially based off the Depeche Mode song "The Dead of Night" because I absolutely love it and thought it was about something completely different than what it's actually about.
Rafael Gonzaga Sep 2018
Quarantine aisles briskly I tread
Oh, the unending agony of those we call "dead"
And yet persists the practice of our people
To give them roses, hugs for the feeble

Morning comes and sunlight creeps
Among tombstones and relatives' weeps
Lighting every corner with it's ray
Filling their hearts with dismay

It signals life, that morning sun
for it shall never be seen by you whose life is done
Bittersweet some might say
But to me it's all just gray

Gray as your hair when you left
You looked so young,you handled aging with deft
We thought nothing was wrong, you hid it with your smile
To make your stay here all worth while
Rafael Torres Sep 2018
Nameless,
I've named this,
For who knows the contents could be,
Reminded I am,
Of gravestones left unmarked,
Once were,
But today not a name to be seen...
When I gaze upon these,
I still send my respects,
I have not a clue,
As to resting is who,
Send love from my chest,
Move to the next,
Nothing is more I could do...
I guess for a second,
All I can rekon,
Is to imagine the being below,
Of their life's journey,
Those they've effected,
I only guess,
But never could know...
I hope they have felt,
My intents of respects,
And know they are not forgotten,
In fact I do say,
Right here today,
I do not even know my own place,
In this here world,
For which we are thrown,
My meaning,
Still yet,
Unknown...
So I visit as a friend,
A simple kind gesture,
A gift of my salutations,
You lay there,
As I stand afoot,
A quick connection of Nations...
I do hope it was felt,
That I so alone,
Considered a guest,
Of your home...
The Cemetery.
Written 08/04/2018. 11:08PM. Speaking on the graves I visit, which I see have been vandalised, defiled, defaced, or damaged...
Knit Personality Aug 2018
Goblin King:          Who, on such a night as this,
                               Christmas Eve, goes out amiss?
Goblin Chorus:      Gabriel Grub!  Gabriel Grub!  
                               **! **! **!  'T is Gabriel Grub!

King:                      Who, on Christmas Eve, goes out
                               Digging graves?  Ye goblins, shout:
Chorus:                  Gabriel Grub!  Gabriel Grub!  
                               **! **! **!  'T is Gabriel Grub!

King:                      Who, like Scrooge, the season mocks?
                               Who should fill a "Christmas box"?
Chorus:                  Gabriel Grub!  Gabriel Grub!  
                               **! **! **!  'T is Gabriel Grub!

King & Chorus:     Gabriel Grub!  Gabriel Grub!
                               **! **! **!  'T is Gabriel Grub!



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