Mims 4d

Because I can not wait for summer
And sunshine
And car rides
And rolled down windows
And too loud music
And party's at Tyler's
And being a stupid teenager
I can not wait for flower photo shoots
Hoping our Instagram feed makes up for our lack of personality
Driving with no hands
And then suddenly not driving ever again

Nights where alone felt like perfect company
The memories are bittersweet
But every season they engulf me

Days so hot
You stay in bed
Or maybe you just blame the heat
Because maybe it's the depression
Maybe go to support group and be confused why it doesn't feel like a John Green book
Where therapy
Or eating feels like giving up

Bikini clad bodies
Boys teasing not so playfully

You died four summers ago
This year

Walks at night
No cars just stars

She was raped in that field

Lipstick covered mouths
Onto other lipstick covered mouths
Girls who were taught originality should be treated like pulling teeth

Nike sneakers
Go so well with ciggerettes

Soccer at sunset
And scandals with
underage girls

For everything under the sun
But at least there's sun


I tried to make this happy
I really did
But I am fucking bitter
What can I say I'm traumatized
And I am sick of romanticizing summer
When he died in summer
And she was broken in summer
And all my friends have stories
But I do want this winter to be over

Spring I am hoping will be less of a pain

Too Complicated
I’m not supposed to be grieving
My Baby wasn’t supposed to die
How did this happen
How did I wind up counting dead roses
How did I wind up being reminded of proper funeral decorous
I can’t explain what’s going on
Something happened when that boy came along
That boy who started dating my firstborn son…
What has that boy done?
I’m not supposed to be burying my Baby,
Shouldn’t be standing by a pile of dirt with no one to clutch my hand
I shouldn’t have ice in my heart over my pride and joy as I hold his jersey
How did anything ever go wrong for us
How did a present, devoted, loving mother and a smart, strong, sweet boy end up here
How could God let us find ourselves in a cemetery we have no way out of
I can’t reconcile this horrible day with real life
Something went terribly wrong
When that boy came along
I’m not supposed to find myself sobbing, weeping, and doing nothing else
It was all so nice a week ago, throwing big parties
I shouldn’t be making a speech about my son in front of everyone
He supposed to be grounded for when his music rattled the room and broke my nice dishes
But he’s not home, he’s supposed to be with me but he’s not
How did that boy who’d been so polite to me bounce into our lives and end everything good
Everything was wonderful like a Hallmark card
Until that cursed boy came to tear it apart
How? Why?
Why, why, why?

This poem now appears in a poetry collection on Medium.. See it in full here: https://medium.com/@briannarduffin/the-end-of-all-the-endings-59796ac67ff7

I havent found you in another body.
My hands wither
with every new touch,
But nothing new
ever blooms in the summer.
Me and you were a crash landing
And every parachute has a whole in it.

I was supposed to get over you.
10 years is far too long
To spend aching yourself awake.
The last time I cried on someone's shoulder
I called them your name.
I haven't made eye contact with someone
and meant it
since you last held my hand.

His jaw against my thumb felt more hollow than your lungs,
and I don't know how to breakup
with someone without a heartbeat.

Quinn Jan 10

The music tells me that we are an isle of flightless birds
and his body paints a perfect picture portrait without any recollection of words.

The wrinkles on his face hint at the ghost of a smile;
but the boy's body remains, unflinching,

And I am begging his parents not to bury him.
They were going to wrap him up
from head to toe
In a cloth of linen

They were going to
dig a hole to make his memory
in his mother's mind not stay.
and so she told me,

"the ground is where my son's body will lay."

I stare at a pastor;
his tears shine at me like the pieces of  
propaganda plastered
on a wall in a church.

"Hear hear, good townspeople, bring the book to leviticus three, verse forty five!"

Where was the pastor when the boy was alive?
Why has he come now, to cover his bullet hole, and call
suicide a temptation.

The pastor's facade broadcast on the radio station.
They let the pastor's words become the words of the devil -
as with the mourning and pain he had meddled.

Cremation is easier,
a single session of fire and the boy's body would be free,
to be swallowed by the wind, and the whole world he could see
'Ashes are better, they set the soul free.'

But the boy's friends faces are fixed on his dead hintings of a smile,
smiles were one thing they would not know for a while...
They wore newfound scars, "don't shoot!" they would say.
If only that could've taken the sad boy's pain away.

This boy's bullet, it flew fast
then it cracked and
it tore, and it took.
The bullet blitzed out his brain,
and it landed in my eye.

And then I cleaned up his mess that he'd left on the walls,
When I cleaned off his stain
I saw he'd left me a leaving.
Starting slow, and then fast,
a small glowing angel
left my eyes as mere puddles,
as it crawled out from his head
and then gave me a secret,
'he's with me now, he's safe
his dreams are where he lives now,
from life he's escaped.'

'With the single life he took, that boy
started a revolution,
as his one bullet flew,
he ended a conversation
that his kind never started.
It seems society's one thing that kid has outdone.'
the next thing that I knew, I sat in solitude, not dreaming or breathing..

Realize dreams and reality
cross from their cruelty
into each other until you
dream things that are realer,
and see things that are clearly fake.
Revolutions fling off and then flake from
bullets and death and bad things you see.
Make society conversate carefully,
and ignore the leeches they're swimming in.
Sin and ritalin consuming and-
it all starts with a bullet,
we can no longer ignore it.

A boy's dead, scar straight shot right through his head.
Nailing friend's faces to coffins, softly killing them dead.
Here's my love note to you, now I stand at your grave.
I wish I could stop wearing the scar that you gave,
with this note,
I say dearly,
and with the skip of heartbeats -
goodbye my dear friend, may you please hear our grief.

eli Jan 3

so perhaps one day
we'll meet in a world
that isn't this cruel one,

and i'll finally be at ease
knowing it will be kinder to you
than this one has ever been.

rest easy, jjong
LPpoetry Jan 3

Woke up one morning to find that you were gone,
It seems that you had lost a battle that could never be won,
Even though you are gone I still hear you every day,
But through the songs you sang is the only way,
I miss you every day because I keep you in my memory,
Now you sing in heaven with the angels, in harmony,
Even if you are now gone and onto a new quest,
I promise to keep you in my memory and leave out all the rest.

YH Dec 2017

I'm tearing, I'm breaking,
and I'm trying to mend my broken heart.

Am I okay, you ask.

No, I'm not.

But I am getting better.

I'm certain I am.
I have to be.
I must.

Time will not stop just because I'm having a hard time,
neither will my tears just because I plead.

But the seconds also don't flow as slow for you,
who aren't in grave despair.

I'm trying,
give me time.

Let me grief.

— Y.H.

gentle fervor.

woe is me,
and tragedy is him.

(c) Y.H.
Grey Mask Dec 2017

There they wander,
lost, mourning and weeping.

Under a red sun ever-bleeding,
under a sky veiled by smoke,
under a dull moon without luster.
Over everburning cities and thirsty fields,
over blasted mountains and mired seas,
over dark oceans hiding twisted wrecks.

Drifting in burning wind on ashen wings,
over bones long-since become dust,
tears like rain, salting the ruins.

Abandoned angels on a dead world,
guardians with none they could save.

To the poor guardian angels that couldn't save us from ourselves.
Karishma GS Dec 2017

My dear friend
My dear
I’m not sure what to make of you now -
Not a friend, to be sure;
I lost that privilege.
I understand I was so hard to love,
Or I was easy to love, but hard to hold on to
Like a wisp of smoke from a fire so bright
In a night so very dark
That it obscured
Any hint of care that still burned in me.

You were a forest fire of faith
that consumed cities in your wake,
And if I were in a satellite,
I would’ve seen you from outer space.
But I was prehistoric in my love,
Sending smoke signals showing
My adoration,
And you couldn’t see them
Against the backdrop of smog
That polluted my affection.

You were blind
and spoke through sound,
While I was mute
and spoke through sight,
And you were telling me that you heard
My pleas for help,
You were telling me that you cared.
But there was a language barrier,
My painting to your symphony,
So I couldn’t tell you how much
I appreciated everything
You had done for me.

And as the river of time bore down upon me
I may have lost all the negative in the current,
Or remembered the positive
With more grace than it deserved.
Maybe I have painted myself
as the poor and misunderstood antihero,
who returned to right their wrongs,
to write their wrongs,
when in reality, I was the villain,
who sees themself in a righteous halo
of furor, passion, and glory,
and I caused too much pain to ever
make up for any of the harm I bred.
I don’t know.

But I know that you deserve better
Than my continued silence.
So I’ll give with this apology
The embers of my passion
That burn evermore
With the knowledge that you are
Everything I could want in a friend.
You always were.
So thank you,
My dear
My dear friend.

For two friends I haven't seen in a while.
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