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Jaanam Jaswani Sep 2013
there are holes in the sand because of the hermit *****
but the hermits aren’t nearly as beautiful as these
my very solitude is a beauty
but i’m the beast

i will lay upon this rock at the end of the beach
until the shore ***** up and touches me
even if the gods above want to scare me with a little water
even if the claws pinch me
even if the sol water stings me

wash my footsteps away
evidence of my existance is obsolete
i’m but a ghost
spiriting amidst the contemporaneity of it all

shred my skin away
leave them like bones
bones after an apocalypse
i’m their epilogue

the sea is a dog
it barks upon the shore
it pulls you into a tide of glee
it slobbers love in the contours of your face
it invites you in, and doesn’t let go.
Fuji Bear Apr 2014
Deaths are like tally marks on your mind.
They are charcoal black tick marks
that build on your subconscious,
never fading to scars.
Some are merely penciled in,
like the death of an aunt you never knew.
However the death of someone close cuts deep into you;
a constantly fresh wound.
Never scarring, never healing, it only festers.
But watching someone die burns a dark wound into your brain,
a permanent scorched mark,
the insignia of a life taken forever,
branded onto your thoughts.
We can never remove our tallies and
they only build over time,
our mind growing darker from past sufferings.
But when all that remains is what caused it in the beginning: death.
you become just another tally on those you loved.
I uploaded this poem on behalf of a friend who wrote it.
All credit to them.  (There were minor adjustments)
Yours et cetera Apr 2014
An eyewitness once recited
His bone-chilling account
Of his tightrope walk to Death
How he managed to return
Was, and remains, impossible to say
But his frightening story resonates

"There I stood on my toes,
On an intermediate point teetering
Between the idyllic salvation
Of Heaven
And the macabre derangement
Hell promises

Lose your balance
And the wayfarer finds himself
Succumbing to the merciless
Pull of the underworld
Condemning him to eternal
Suffering

The scanty few who
Travel across the rope
Unscathed,
undaunted and unfazed
Indulge in the reward
Of the Holy Father's *deliverance


And so I stood on the rope,
Its rough frays tickling my soles, I,
Precariously perched on the border
Of Life, Death,
Of Salvation and Damnation
Too overcome with fear to advance forward

I whispered a few syllables,
The dulcet notes rollicked up to
A Saviour above
Omniscient one who knew
The best path for my wintering fate
In a haze of bewilderment I awoke"
So my wayward thoughts somehow detoured to the sensation of death
Heliza Rose Apr 2014
I write letters to the dead because they are quiet and they listen.

I write letters to the dead because they like the night as much as I do.

I write letters to the dead because they never write back.
Rin Mar 2014
There was something to be said about her last Saturday at her best friend's wedding -- sitting on the bride's side wearing a little black dress, red lipstick, and sunglasses. All she needed was a hat and you'd think she was at a funeral.

There was something to be said about her last
Saturday at her best friend's wedding. "Congratulations!" she
yelled after the kiss as she pulled a pistol from her purse and shot a bullet through his heart.

There was something said about her last Sunday, at her best
friend's funeral. She was on the paper, Woman Arrested for Shooting a Man on His Wedding Day Committed Suicide. She stabbed her jugular with the pen she used to write a note that read "See you at our wedding!" addressed to his widow, dated Sunday.
*Work in progress. Comments and suggestions are very much welcome.
Francisco DH Mar 2014
I saw the future and it was seeping with despair.
The women forever held there breaths as the children longed for death.
The men drunkenly gouged logic from everyone's head
Consumed The logic then fell, falling, dead.
And it continued for none of them cared.
I am not sure as to why I wrote this but I wanted to share this with y'all.
Carsyn Smith Mar 2014
"It's a shame,"
A mother  says to her daughter,
"that such pretty girls think such dark things."

But there it is --
The very reason why us girls think thoughts so dark:
There is beauty in death.

As soon as we're gone,
People suddenly want us.
Celebrities will pray for the poor young lost soul,
We'll suddenly be beautiful in everyone's eyes --
And everyone will want to be our friend.

Suddenly those bullies want forgiveness,
And your out-of-your-league crush likes you back.

You'll never age -- a constant beauty.
You'll be pure -- negativity buried with your body.
You'll be smart -- the one "with the bright future."

Suddenly we're wanted,
Missed
Mourned
Loved
We've gotten all we've been searching for!
But what good does it do us,
if we'll never feel the suns warmth again?
Never again to catch loose snowflakes,
Or smell the spring dafodils?

If you can bring yourself to never laugh again,
To never kiss again,
To never dream again,
Then it's on you.
But don't tell me you'll go without regret:

Maybe you'd still be alive if someone told you sooner?
Maybe we should stop praising those who take their lives?

~C E Smith

— The End —