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sidra Sep 29
A childhood spent playing around caskets,
peering at the mournful glances,
leaving flowers in several hundred baskets
daughter of a funeral home director
Arthur Blank Sep 24
Autumn is on the wind, the spirts
Of the sky have flown south, for
Winters breath has begun to bite. In
The cool damp air I can smell them,
The dying leaves, breezing ever
So gently past my feet, blown by
The reaping wind in rote. Yet,
Not one weeps for their passing.

It is only I who weeps for I know
The secret they keep hidden,
Cinched in amber and lurid hues.
I watch them as drift and sway,
Tumbling over one another to
their final resting place to die
forgotten. Each falling leaf,
A grain of sand, a second, hour,
Another moment closer to the
Cessation of our existence

The fleeing multitudes to
Many to hold on to.
This is one of those poems that, when you start you mean to go one direction but takes on another while writing. I meant for it to be longer piece but I felt I have said what I needed to. Any criticism would be appreciated. Thanks.
                                              - Arthur Blank
Ally Ann Sep 23
I have a heavy kind of sorrow
from losing something
that was never mine to lose,
mind straying to what could have been
haphazardly dreaming about
scenarios that were never meant to be,
bending to the will of some unknown force
that lives inside me
and aches for the world to be different
than it was when I ran from
the words that haunt me at night
and I am wracked with guilt
for hurting those who only wanted the best for me,
letting my stuttering heart decide
what what would make up the rest of me,
even as I am drowning in the ocean
it put me in,
this sorrow keeps breaking me
repeatedly screaming what I may have done wrong
and I am chained to my body
losing something over and over again
that I have no right to mourn
Zane Smith Sep 16
it's crazy to think
some people's lives just started
some people's lives just ended
all over the world.
a celebration of life has begun
a mourning of death has begun.
no matter your age
no matter what stage of life,
everyone's still learning.
making mistakes
sure some have it easier than others
sure some have it harder than others
but in the end,
we have the chance to live
to live as in to be present.
we are here on this earth
while others aren't
recognize your opportunity
to be.
here is your reminder, here is your sign, to open your eyes.
NM Sep 12
I sat with my anger long enough,
Until it told me it's real name was grief.
Ackerrman Sep 9
There goes the alarm again.
The misanthropic crusader goes into shock,
I calm it down; comfort is mania.
Stare despondently into the void.

A chorus rises,
Violence, people trapped in time shout through metal,
A voice cries, confined, bounces from hall to wall,
I am not sure I woke up at all.

Some higher functioning brain activities
Get bored in their entropic state-
Trade places with whimsy,
Because that is what they do when they lose interest in their task,

As I have lost interest in my task,
And look for more chin music-
To raise a symphony within me.
To make one day look different to the last.
I wrote this a few months ago; It is about waking up.
BJFWords Aug 24
I'm part of the exclusion zone.
Of you and them and me.
I'm lost in past, forgotten fast.
Old news, and ceased to be.

All well and good in time to brood.
For memories remained.
I'm outside staring, sightless, glaring.
Forget me not, refrained.

I hope for love's sweet comfort.
In shattered future's loss.
When I'm remembered fondly.
And swept away the moss.

If recall be painless.
Reminded with a smile.
Sit aside my resting place.
And think of us awhile.
Merry Aug 17
They say only the good die young
I don't think that's quite right
Unless I'm more rotten than you
Your lungs were polluted
Your legs were open
And yet it was your casket
Which closed first
MellowWrath Aug 13
No pain is greater than loss
For each breath becomes more painful
Each tear more bitter
And each voice more broken.
But only release can turn itself into divine
As we turn toward silent prayers
As we drop to our knees and join our hands
Whispering raw names.
Let us be heard, Us who have lost
For we are all fated
As if sharing the same body,
To lose what we hold most dear.
Let our tears dry, our breath quicken with life and want, let our chants resonate in the emptiness that surounds us
For eternity if not a life time.
It is hard to go on.
basil Aug 13
they say grief has 5 stages.
but which one am i at?


dec. 24, 2014.
the last time i saw you
building little racetracks out of playdough for the younger kids.
i remember the little purple dolphin.

fast forward.

the little yellow monarch butterflies we used to find everywhere.
they remind me of you now.


making lean-to shelters in the backyard of the cabin.
we would catch tadpoles in little butterfly catching nets.
remember the big one i caught?
because i do.

please catch butterflies up there for me, too.
i miss you
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