Austin 4h
The rose is dead,
    The violence true,
Snuff is sweet,
    Just like you.
Peter B 5h
Death can
turn back
the hands of time.
The smell of babies breath
Curly petals and velvet feathers
Cupid's sweet kisses
Heaven comes after death
© LadyRavenhill 2018
Elliot 7h
Can’t sleep.
Lying here.
On my bed.
A bright screen.
No life.
My head
Filled with knives.
I bled.
For a time.
Words unsaid
Steady decline.
Depression fed.
Fault’s mine.
Should’ve fled.
Was a sign
Should’ve read.
Got there fine.
Where it led?
Should’ve said
A bright screen.
Now red.

Not yet.
What’s next
Lying here
On my bed?
Surprised you must be
When you walk in the room
And see a body hanging from the ceiling

Grotesque with decay
An odor that betrays
It has hung there for possibly a century

A heavy rain settled
Around the building
So that it was obscured by mist

And sirens soon blare to signal the arrival
Of policemen who will perform their morbid ritual
A coroner ready to investigate the very thing mankind fears

The death of Mr. Youth was unexpected, quite sudden indeed
So why did it take so long to realize he was missing?
He had faded so much from everydayness that no one had noticed

"Murdered by whom?"
Was the thought on the people's minds
As they mourned the loss of an old friend

It was obviously growing up some contend
It was clearly adult influence others claim
And still more jeered and yelled hypotheses just as lame

It was not a murder as people had assumed
It was suicide plain as day
And it was not an act in some simple play

It was simply the natural way of things
That all that is bright and lovely must die down
As we get older and wiser and boringer

Yet fragile we are inside
That characteristic has never changed
For we all want fun and happiness

So sometimes we let our youth die
Neglecting it, wasting it for all those years
While we pity ourselves and wallow in our own tears

So maybe it is a murder
Maybe we are the killers
And we will soon receive our comeuppance
For Joy was not created to be a martyr
Your death caused a fracture in the foundation of the family
Trying to tie a tourniquet above the gaping hole isn’t an option
We all tiptoe around the pools of blood, but it still sticks to our sneakers.
Words like grenades, lobbed at each other
Hoping they’re duds, but deep down hoping they cause a crater
You were the bonding element even though we are too stubborn to admit it

When you were alive, you were the dartboard
Now that you’re gone, the darts are out of control.
lauren 9h
it’s been a while since i’ve written poetry.
a lot has changed and i feel very different now. the weight of my own name has settled better on my tongue. summer is beginning and they say it’s going to be a hot one, an indian summer stretching long into the autumn months, unexpected but not unwelcome. an old friend saying goodbye one last time. the warmth with last until i myself have to say goodbye one last time. right now time moves slow under the heat like a fly in amber, sticky saccharine stretching between its wings, but i know better than to trust this lethargic flow of heartbeats. if i do, the end will sneak up on me, creeping in the shadows of the places that are too dark for me to see into. i try to ignore these places. i’m not sure i know how to be alone and i do not know how i will fare after these last few warm months of childhood. i get the feeling that i am leaving an era behind.
Abby 1d
I can't stand the heat of these clothes,
I can't breath the weight of this air,
So much red blood I can't hold,
Just can't feel my feet bare,
I can't bear my dark soul,
I can't bear to be alive,
I can't bear to die,
Wanna be dust,
Naked gold,
The sky.

Cold is the flesh of one departed
But not forgotten, not alone
Their name is lost but their deed remembered
Cold is the flesh, cold like stone


Hard was the task of those departed
To give all, and remain unknown
But they did not falter, remained unyielding
Hard are the features on a face of stone


Strong were the spirits of those departed
Even when lead tore flesh from bone
They marched as ever for king and country
Strong were the beats of their hearts of stone.


Proud are we to have come to know them
The men and women who call this land home
Ever defiant, ever courageous.
Proud am I of this my land of stone.
"Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once." William Shakespeare.
This is probably the piece im most proud of.
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