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Mori 3h
In a graveyard, a little being
slept on the bench
while people passing by
what it was doing there
but little did they know,
the being came to say
it´s bye-bye.

When I feel suicidal, I always visit the graveyard and end up crying because deep down I know that I am loved and my grave would be filled with flowers. However, I only know it and can´t really feel it.
It´s like feeling lonely when you know you´re not and it´s killing me.
Zywa 5d
Feathers, falling
from the wings of the dark
angel, falling

over the foggy graveyard
losing height with every next field
of stakes and stones

Men had to ****
boys were frightened heroes
hunger and disease did the rest

Life is scrawny, the chests
of the girls are too flat
for the babies in their bellies

Between the frail black feathers
they arrange flowers of past times
the flowers of future times

with every colour they dream
of the veiled sun
and wish it back
Inspired by “The Dark Angel” (2019, M.T.R. on

Collection “On living on”
a churchyard speaks in hushed voices
while a graveyard wails in haunting screams

the reason that no more
than a single crow appears
on the high and curled fences
around the church’s yard

is that a ****** doesn’t belong
where the holy ride the horses pale

for a churchyard speaks in hushed voices
while a graveyard wails in haunting screams
Amanda Jan 22
she wept near the grave of her father,
knees digging into the fresh dirt.
her tears watered the earth beneath
her limbs.
deep sobs escaped her throat.
her father stood near.
not yet enough energy to form
and apparition for his daughter--
maybe some day.

he could see others pacing beside
their graves--wandering.
with a slight tip of the hat
to another nearby soul
and a sigh towards his kin,
he vanished with a gust of wind.
she turned, rubbing her puffy eyes
wishing it were him.
disappointed, she lays down
on top of the soil, six feet between her
and the freshly departed.
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.
Sara Kellie Dec 2018
Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
Eradicating memories,
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Birthstones = gravestones
Carcass yard = graveyard
Flesh tomb = a body (alive or dead)
A Dec 2018
When I say that you smell like graveyard I don’t mean it in a negative way
It not an unpleasant smell
Not in the slightest
Its familiar smell
One that i can recognize from a mile away
And go “Oh there she is”
It's a smell that i look for in your t-shirts or jackets
The ones that i steal from you to keep until the next time you get a year older
Because hey
You did it
Maybe things weren’t good
But you did it
You’re here
Your smell is one of the few things that’s kept me alive when i'm on my own
A graveyard smells like earth
Like an accumulation of grass and dirt
You don’t smell like earth but in a way you do
Earth smells damp and dark and occasionally fresh and clean at other times
Earth is home
In a way you’re home too
I look for you in crowded hallways
I find you in empty jokes and silence and whispers
You are a two in the morning text message
When my life is falling apart over the same girl
The one who no matter how many times that she rips my heart of my chest
I always end up letting her come back and do it again
You’re there when it’s almost night time but i just can’t be in my own head anymore
You’re there even when your own life seems to be crumbling in your hands
Sometimes i can’t tell that i’ve done something to upset you
Just that you seem to refuse to look at me
Or that there’s silence
Which isn’t necessarily abnormal
But this kinda silence isn’t comfortable
It’s like being trapped in a blanket of what did i do this time
I never want to have let you go
I never want to have to lose you
If there comes a time where i begin to wear away at you
I can
You’ve become such an important factor in my life that i can go if i need to
Because you’ve been through so much and you deserve anything
Whether it’s a galaxy on a string or your own personal constellation
You deserve it
oi i wrote this about a friend of mine
George Nov 2018
It was two things -
they happened both together, at 2 am.

One - it started to snow.
The other - I saw him.

He stood in the middle of the graveyard.
A person I did not know, standing alone -
in a place where others rest till the end of days.

There was no noise around him.
He said nothing.
Silent as the falling snow.

I tried to call out to him, but there was nothing I could say.

When I walked, he followed.
When I stopped, he did the same.

He followed me home.
I watched him from my window -
he stood at the top of the garden path,
looking at my window.

It was 2 am again, but another day -
and on this occasion, only one thing happened.

It started to snow.

I could hear,
on the other side of my closed bedroom curtain,
the silence that only snow can bring.
It was time.

I walked outside, on those streets I knew so well as a child.
Its urban wear and tear covered in a forgiving blanket of white.

My feet made no sound.
From the empty street, I look up at windows of places that I once knew.
There are no more horizons for me -
every language I now understand.
Sophia Nov 2018














Raylind Nov 2018
and in the graveyard of my lovers
i take care not to step loudly
that they might not wake and see,
how cold it is.
that i might not smash their corpses still

i put an arrow in my own heart
to wrench it out with might
and little will it bleed, if at all

i finally dug myself a spot
so i too can wait for footsteps overhead
warm in thick soil
only asking to be wrangled from the dirt,
here and there,
to see the cold.
stooping heartily into my hole
i whistle merrily
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