In a graveyard, a little being slept on the bench while people passing by wondered 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.
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.
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.
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)
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
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