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serena 3d
i can't breathe.

i want to,
but every time i go to take a breath
i feel as if a giant
is crushing me.

air leaks past my lips
as if i'm being squeezed around the torso,
by this being with great large hands.
he clenches my torso
harder, harder,
and squishes me to a pulp.

what remains of me falls from his hands.

raining down from his fingertips are stars,
collected from a memory
of lying down on a dock
in the middle of a lake
in the middle of the night
in the middle of New York.

dripping from his palms are
all the tears
i ever cried
from high school breakups
to crippling breakdowns,
from lost forgotten lovers
to fights with loving mothers.

floating down to the ground
are wisps of my golden hair
and from the tips of each split end
shoot out all the sunlight
i ever collected
from every day
my head was out under the sun.

and as i finally cease to exist
a supernova of love and life
explodes from the giant's hands.
it's colorful, magical, and magnificently bright,
and every color you can see
was a memory of someone and me.

the giant sobs,
as the realization that
he killed something so beautiful
takes hold.
for what else
could have ended so spectacularly?

he weeps into his hands,
the great hands that ended me,
yet when he pulls away,
sitting his palm
is a little girl with golden hair.
people always ask me how i want to die. this is how.
Jack Shannon Feb 4
I remember days spent rocking to and fro on a boat with no particular place to go, just waiting for the next race, sandwich in hand which is somehow filled with sand, though none is in sight. The massive grin as I almost fall in, and a look of disappointment as he realises I’m not completely soaked to my skin.

I remember nights spent under electric lights, rolling bowls down an artificial green, and seeing him clap and cheer if I got anywhere near.

I remember piles and piles of meat being grilled, Ivor looking perfectly chilled as the barbecue flamed around his ears, always calm and happy to be cooking, ribs and burgers and sausages and steak, always burnt a few by ‘mistake’ which just happened to find their way to the dog.

I remember him smiling.

I remember singing with him in the car, on our way to do something somewhere, voices raised high, without a care for the tune, or pitch, and even the lyrics were mostly substituted with anything we came up with at the time. Belting Les Mis together for the 42nd time that trip because we had forgotten to take any other CD’s.

I remember how proud he looked when he showed me the first Potato he took home from the new allotment, trying to justify the days of work digging and toiling, plowing and boiling in a summer heat that couldn’t seem to keep him inside, for the sake of more courgettes than you could shake a stick at.

I remember crying, and him telling me it was okay to feel this way, that it just means we cared, and not to be ashamed to let the tears fall.

I remember watching him sit in the garden, Toby at his feet, content to just watch the world go by, only the occasional fly to bother him. He just sat, a small smirk on his face, happy with the pace of the world as it was, the afternoon sun just starting to sink. I wish I could remember what he said as I joined him.

I remember him as he was, as he will always be in my mind and my heart.
A poem I’ve written (and still editing) for my Step-Dad’s funeral next week. Pretty depressing, but I felt like I wanted to get this out now, rather than bottling it up.
Tommy Randell Jan 22
Everyday I wear her ring.
Sometimes it's there,
Sometimes not -
Even when I'm looking.

When I don't look
I don't think about it.
When I don't think about it
It's always there,

Like she was there,
When she was alive,
And my whole world was
About her.

She is not here now
But real yes in every sense -
So, Her Ring, one link
In a chain I polish every day,

Her ring,
One poem in a life
Of poems linked together -
Her Ring is my promise.
Behind enemy lines you gave your life,
The risks you knew and embraced willingly,
Red, black and green berets fought by your side,
And brought your body back to family.

Later in a ritual of their own,
They would name a field airport in your name,
And honor you, your brothers, far from home,
Their memory now your eternal flame.

I do not know your rank, your name, your face,
I only know that I am in your debt,
Who for your family can take your place?
Our debt to them we must never forget.

The freedom I enjoy comes thanks to you,
And all who serve with honor, proud and true.
Members of the elite special forces units consider themselves quiet soldiers. They do their work in the background, in some of the most dangerous places on earth. They bring their special skills to bear behind enemy lines operating in the shadows with only one another to watch their backs. And they don't leave one of their own behind. As a rule they don't talk about their work to outsiders. This sonnet is based on a very rare instance when one of these quiet soldiers very briefly mentioned an instance behind enemy lines where one of their own was killed in action but not left behind.

From of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011
EJ Lee Jan 7
It’s happened
Death to
Fellow classmate
There are many of them
That goes through this
How we remember them
Honor them
Praise them
For their hard work
Getting where they are now
Some move on
To a successful career
And long lives
While others are short lived
While other suffer
Unexplainable disease
Unexpected crashes
These are ones who we mourn
These are the ones that we remember
The unexplainable
Unexpected ones
They are ones that make an impact on us
It seem sad that they have to die first
In order to be remembered
By others
It is out of our hands
There is no stopping this
All that we can do
Is pray that death won’t come to
Our classmates
Our friends
Our alumni

This poem was written in remembrance of the death of friends and alumni
I will wither one day
my skin will decay
desires will fall
But my soul will bloom
every time
you remember me.
ren Dec 2018
do you remember how it felt
to be in love
and thought that maybe you were enough?
or how it felt to know he was always there,
protecting you and loving you?
i remember it so vividly
to the point tears surround my eyes
but you must not remember a thing
or maybe choose to forget
and i suppose that’s alright,
i can only wish.
do you remember–
serena Dec 2018
love is just an illusion
a facade of flowers and chocolates
perpetuated by movies and television

it’s just a cover up
a mask to disguise what we really want
so we’re not all portrayed as *** addicts
Catherine Dec 2018
i miss the girl I was
the one who trusted Paul and Mike
the cousin and the uncle
because they always hanged out in the house
and narrated a lot of stories
because they complemented my transition to womanhood
and looked forward to meeting my husband
i miss the girl I was
before they did the same thing at differently
before my favorite dress became tatters
before I screamed till I fainted
before the **** and the bleeding and the crying
before fear for men became a second skin
before sleep became something I couldn't afford
before incessant hooting set a tent in my head
i miss those days,
by the pool and porch,
swimming and laying on the grass to dry
sipping juice during Christmas eve
i miss those days,
especially 10th July and 24th September
i miss those days,
when I was their blood
and they wanted the best for family
if you happen to see those days
or my first face,
tell them and her I miss them
I just do.
Taliesin Dec 2018
I’m obsessed with a guy.
He’d pay for a chance to sing the blues.
Just a taste of that weary hard-bitten life.
Just a taste of the pain and heartbreak and grief.
Just a taste mind you.

Nothing more.

I’m obsessed with the martyrs
that strut to and fro fearing only death,
and taxes,
and those ****…
What do you call them?
that’s it
that strut to and fro fearing only death.

I’m obsessed with the vagrants.
Going into the world with so much honesty.
With mad religions screeching, seeing Doom and Death and Capital.
With mad songs of ****** and Sunlight, Rain and Drink and ******.
And mad poems, pages long, that howl into the darkness.
I heard them sing electric carols at the railway station,
and concrete O’ Fortunas on the bridge.
I heard them play on their leaf-spring guitars the mocking rhythm
of the groaning streets
that echoes in the mind for all of its humour.
For all of its tragedy.

And I’m obsessed with the poets that dreamt
and dared to stop dreaming.
And laid themselves down into spiral notebooks
and were cast in stone above their alma maters
silent forevermore.
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