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Lost Soul Oct 2018
Hi Everyone, I'm dead
Don't cry now
Where were you
When I lived in bed
No visits, texts, or calls
You were too busy
While I was alone in my room
Trying to remember to breathe while I bawl
Don't worry I'm not blaming you
Depression hit hard
I'm a coward
It was my fault too
I should  have done what was best
Stop pushing people away
Stop conforming to others wishes
Told my maybe boyfriend... yes
But its not about why or how
Stop crying,we had our chance
we blew it
I'm dead now
japheth Oct 2018
i’m writing
a eulogy.
no,
it’s not
for someone close to me
who died recently,
it’s
for someone who loved me dearly
whose love died
when i presented my demons
and couldn’t take them individually.
i’m writing a story for film and i felt like my character is so selfish. so here’s what the character is feeling when she’s crying her eyes out writing out the pain and consequence of her actions
Julian Delia Sep 2018
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD

Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City;
Where the sand is stained with blood
As the world feigns pity.
Broken families, unspoken tragedies –
The order of everyday life.
He was born amidst chaos and strife,
To a divorcing husband and wife.

If life were lived in peace,
This dissolution would’ve been a release.
Not much more, not much less –
A family’s lore, a decision to digress.
In war-ravaged land, however,
One needs every helping hand,
Especially a soul that was so clever.

Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand;
A furious, rapacious search,
Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind.
Why do we exist?
Why do we fight and resist?
Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists?
Does anybody outside Palestine care?
Will they keep on watching?
Or will they be unable to bear?

Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought,
As he sat at the Marna House Hotel,
Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought.
A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist,
A prudent man who would have gotten far.
An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression –
An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression.
Hunted down and killed by the IDF,
Another pacifist murdered for being an activist.

One figure of many who died;
One of those who did not want to hide.
Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter –
He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter.
Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter,
And perhaps have family of his own.

He was in love, and wanted to get married,
But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried.
The final twist of horror?
Having the intellect to apply for University,
And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply,
Yet not being allowed to leave the city.
That is the news Mohanad had received,
Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived.
Denied a right to education
Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication.
The glass ceiling, dripping with blood,
Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
Self-explanatory, at this point. Refer to Part I if you're confused...
Julian Delia Aug 2018
PART I – BORN TO CHAOS AND IMPRISONMENT

Imagine –
Being born in a decade of hate,
Of fear of being attacked, front and rear,
Of sleeping with one eye open,
A present reality that is far from golden –
It is a nightmare of self-perpetuating terror.
Welcome to Palestine;
The land where the dogs of war
Come to feast and dine.

70 years of violence;
70 years of resilience.
Millions killed or displaced,
Homes vacated but never replaced,
Not even by those who got out alive,
Scrambling to rebuild, desperate to survive.
For how can you not be enraged and stupefied
When your country’s being erased
And hopelessness is causing suicides?
How can you not throw stones and riot
When your own government kills you
And then proceeds to alter the story or deny it?

That is the reality
That Mohanad Younis was born into;
One of many, a broken generation,
Born with a noose around their neck,
Betrayed and forgotten as a nation.
Desperation was an eternal companion,
A sibling, practically,
Always with them like the Colorado River with the Grand Canyon.

Mohanad was a bright, industrious soul;
A voracious bookworm, with the hunger to swallow a library whole.
Dostoevsky, Dickens and Euripides,
Amongst many others;
A young man who wrote his own tales,
Perhaps keen to escape reality,
Or encapsulate it if all else fails.

When guillotines rain down from the sky,
When prayers are said but your god(s) don’t even reply,
No author, nor their best tales,
Can overcome the missile storms and the bullet hails.
This will be the story
Of Mohanad Younis,
The beloved writer who killed himself
Because all else really did fail.
A eulogy to a fellow soul, writer and inspiration.
'No need to apologise for your early departure.'
joe thorpe Aug 2018
the last male northern white rhino dies.
his tusk and skin, for the first and only time,
out of danger to be stolen in that unfair and clandestine way.
his DNA now in a vile.
he could no longer mount,
and she, though still spring in glory,
could no longer support the moment
his majesty was not able to perform.
a gentle giant is his legacy.
extinction his last and dying breath.

how could we harm such peaceful a creature?
the might of man has torn
yet another
piece of god's only will
from this earth.
will you tonight
dream of the creature?
who among us will know his name tomorrow?
Sudan, the great and gentle.
Sudan, the only northern white male rhino.
SU-DAN, who only in death
is free of man the beast.
still feels like it needs work
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up

We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them

Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them

Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them

Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them

We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season

A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength

We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans

We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares

We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil

As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat

And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions

The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”

I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life

And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog

David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs

Well done Valiant Bulldog

God bless and Godspeed

Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road

5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
the passing of a former teammate
Camille Jun 2018
I remembered
all sorts of words he confided to me,
chanted paeans and rhapsodies lingered from reality.

I captured bits of tormented dreams,
as I felt his presence here with me.
His grin and glare were torture.
His words were knives thrusted too deep.
His sweet lullabies were bitter eulogies to mourn.

I remembered,
the way I casted a glimpse of him,
as he took steps away from me,
it was the end of apathy.


I glanced at how the years have been,
as I burried the odds and ends of him.
My tears were dry of despair.
My eyes were drowned in ecstasy,
My lips curved with glee.
At last, I am free.
N Schlegel May 2018
There was dancing at the funeral;
wild, wind-swept and whirling.
A testament to a life spent unfurling sails and fighting for a better future.
"She was a doctor, your mama" as if I didn't know. "One of the first to say,
'Man, stop calling me a girl,
I'm a professional
and hell, I'll swear like one too.'"

She started her family in this city,
and made every borough within arms reach.
Patients were closer than cousins,
and my aunts spent less time here than the women's wing of the ACLU.

Black is not a way to mourn, but to warn.
A message shouting "Stand clear, this soul is moving on."
Best prepare afterlife, cause this one made a difference here,
and she'll sure-as-**** start something over there.
A good friend's  mom died, and this was for her. Hell of a great woman.
cleann98 Apr 2018
i don't know
    where to start...
          mom said
        the words
            would just flow
      she didn't tell me
         that tears would flow
    in their stead.
        clears throat
             i didn't know dad
       more than
          the bottles
             he always kept
       bringing home.
          mom said he was
          always like them
          always shattered
          always empty
          always cold.
             she said
      if i ever get too much,
          i will burn----
        i never got
        to ask if it was
        dad or beer
        she was talking about...
            snicker
     so earlier
         i was looking
       at dad's stuff
             for something to say.
           there was this
                drawer i've never
       even dared to look into
                til yesterday.
           clears throat
       and i found this letter.
               you see
          at first i thought
      this house was too big
             for just one child----
         now i get it.
                hush
            'to my future daughter:'
        clears throat
              'dianthine'
         'before i say'
            'anything else'
              'do you like your name?'
         'we named you after diana'
            'not the roman goddess,'
       'your mother.'
                'we didn't even fight'
           'to find that name'
       'it was perfect.'
          'like you were going to be.'
               'i'm simply sorry.'
      'you had so much'
         'waiting for you.'
            'you were going to be a lawyer'
     'and criminal prosecutor even.'
         'sorry.'
               'you should know'
       'it's my fault.'
             'simply my fault.'
           'but'
              'i'
             'did'
            'not'
           'mean'
         'for'
           'it'
             'to'
         'happen.'
             'but your mother's gone.'
            'your supposed to be mom'
          clears throat
                     'your only mom.'
         'i have to let you know'
               'that i was the one who quit.'
i figured it out immediately
mom's name was diana but,
mom would quit on dad
before he'd ever quit on her...
             let me continue
        ruffles paper
           'i love diana'
       'i need to just outright say it'
                'since i know'
                'that you would'
                'never get to'
                'meet her----'
         'she is perfect,'
      'she was...'
'it's like mercy though, even if you don't;'
'at least you won't get to be raised by some'
           'old'
           '****'
           'like'
           'the'
           'stupid'
           'me.'
     'yes...'
               yes.
'i'm sorry for sourgraping.'
'sorry for not doing anything better.'
        'honestly she'd be the excellent parent'
        'all i'd probably do is talk-----'
        'or keep you from taking up alcohol'
        'or something---- i don't know'
'i'm sorry.'
'i'm sorry.'
             clears throat
                           'i'm sorry'
                           'i'm sorry'
              tightens paper
       'i don't know what else to say, dianthine.'
'i never told diana this, but...'
           'i was really hoping to meet you'
     'but i promise you this.'
                'if it is not diana'
         'if it's not someone'
      'as perfectly fantastic'
   'as your supposed to be mother----'
              'and if its not you.'
         sobs
           'if it's not as brilliant'
       'or dashing'
              sobs
                'as we hoped you'd be...'
             'then there's no point.'
        'i'm sorry.'
   'i'm sorry.'
               whimpers
            sorry
      clears throat
              dad gave me a ghost
    not his...
          i've always thought
       danthein was too weird
             for a guy's name
     i guess i was just that ghost
that haunted my dad...
i'm sorry
       sobs
  folds paper
            sorry dad, but i have to say
       you may have failed
           in everything that makes
              a good parent----
you succeeded
in one thing,
it might have
been a simple thing
        but you got it right:
               you were a father.
a story of a child giving eulogy for his lost father---- fueled by the theme from the movie, Schindler's List as played by 2Cellos
Julian Delia Apr 2018
THE DILEMMA OF A GENERATION

Mohamed Bouazizi
Represents not just the struggle in Tunisia
But of an entire generation –
His life was a consolidation
Of a series of injustices
Of economic apartheid.
After all, let us not hide
And call this tragedy what it really is.

Mohamed’s life and death
Was one of many terrible examples
Of the depth, the breadth
Of the gap between the rich and the poor.

If you think to yourself,
“I’ll never be that desperate,”
Think again;
You are fortunate
If you’ve never worked and worked until your fingers chafed raw
Yet it was not enough.
You are sheltered
If you’ve never experienced
The yoke of the owners of the world.
You are blind
If you do not see that we have ‘freedom’
That is built on top of mass graveyards.

This yoke
Has served to choke
Not just Tunisians,
But everyone who was not born with wealth
Or the opportunity to make it;
The millennial’s dilemma
Is common across the globe –
Do I lose hope?
Do I succumb
To a life of fast money and being numb?
Do I stop caring, focus instead on the life I can enjoy?
Do I ignore the stolen livelihoods, hushed, covered up and coy
Do I fail to think about the exploited labour
Of suffering human beings,
Of the ****** of my country’s neighbour?

Do I simply sidestep my knowledge of all of this?
Complacent, lacking the will
Unaware, perhaps lacking development of the skill
To realise that our world is dying
Not a slow natural demise
But of humanity-induced suicide.

Or do I, instead,
Pull up my sleeves, avenge the dead?
Do I sacrifice my well-being,
My opportunity to reach that thin demographic of the population
That fragment of the nation
Which lives a life of luxury,
In order to change the world around me?
Do I go against the swirling, swishing current of life
Give up all opportunity for power, leave this society that is rife
With abuse?
For if I don’t,
The sick world we were born in
Will perpetuate its unholy cycle of sin
I will be an instrument of that process,
Whether through complacency or an excess
Of loyalty towards the state.

If I don’t fight back,
If we don’t fight back,
Who will?
Our stillborn children?
The posterity that will be born
To a world that has no clean air,
A world that is built to be unfair
A world that separates people like an algorithm
Those above a certain monetary threshold
And those below it?

No.
It must be the millennial who fights for rights,
Before they are sold off completely and stocks run out,
Before men and women in power with infallible clout
Turn us all against each other
And make us destroy ourselves.
The final part of a poem I wrote to commemorate the life and death of Mohamed Bouazizi.
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