#burried
can words
be written,
yet ignored?
Or do they,
once expressed,
cry out from whence they came
until poured —
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 4:49 PM UTC
We all should live to be 109
38 years is just not enough time
His soul that was once a gold mine
Got tangled with wrong devine
Heat rate a faded flat line
Responsibility I take as mine
Now you'll be buried
Never to marry
This burden I'll carry
The void you leave is scarry
Im so sorry Sr
They'll all say it happened because of her.
C.K Orzen
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC
I don't want to read I don't want to write
I don't want to tell that old story
That had been mentioned every moment
The youth met that is smart
He loved her and she did
They had a deal to be married
All people had known that
But that man who is smart
He is not only smart but he had
A lot of money to get what he wants
He demanded her ,her parents agreed
Our hero had gone ,our hero had vanished
That old story had been finished
The papers must be torn ,the tongues must be silent
You must not read you must not write
The man who wants to convert the land
From yellow to black ,from poor to get plants
He began his job ,he faced the difficult
When he succeeded, when the corps were appeared
The minister took it and had him told
The president that he did his hard
To make that land ****** not to be old
The man hate all people he immigrate abroad
The papers must be torn ,the stories must be buried
There was a hero
Who converts the dream
To the light ,to be appeared
To transport his country to be advanced
He was accused, he was imprisoned
The accused was the topple of the govern
He could be escaped, he could run
The tongues must be silent, the papers must be torn
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
I remember...
Laying in bed for countless hours,
Stoic and still with little power.
Those countless days I spent in my bed,
Those countless nights restless and dead.
I remember...
My crimson soul escapic my pores,
My empty heart filled with holes.
It felt like nothing, it felt like all,
I was surrounded by billions of walls.
Hidden in lies,
Deep down inside.
I'm just afraid,
and burried alive.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 10:29 PM UTC
Today I dug and shoveled away, at an old box, at an old sin.
And upon finding it, I opened it, and stared at its contents. The realization stored within.
For inside I found the truth in this:
"That you can stare at the monster all you want, but in your future, don't ever let yourself desire his life, or become like him."
Not ever, not once, or ever again. But instead be reminded of who he is and how he is. And why also, such things exists, within this life.
Don't embrace the monster locked away. But be a better man. Be more than this. For that is the truth which I found in this.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 10:44 PM UTC
Let's just face it
we're all living a lie
thinking we're something
but eventually we'll die
we'll be forgotten
buried in the ground
or burned down to ash
and scattered all around
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
Buried under shallow water
Faced up to the sky
I've been lying here for hours
Watching the stars shine
The gentle, muffled ripples
Reflecting dancing light
Onto the sand around me
Soft, clean, and white
I don't know how I got here
I don't know why I stay
No one is coming to save me
But I'm not afraid
-Gloraeanna
©Buried Under Water by Gloraeanna
Shared on Hello Poetry
on February 8, 2016
All rights reserved
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
She calls on you
like the blisfull
mermaid
the is reconing doenst bother
who is where
she is but the start of an unformal affair
the wife of many and the truth
uncompared
she is but a mermaid
staring in the distance the long lost love
awakens a shinning bright spark
of another prey
she is the worst of all predators
you do not know my dear
what is the wrongess and the darkness of the matter
the vengeful is still at large
the bliss is atlast come to the poise of unconditional salvage
the attorney of the sage is but his past
the wise tell you to take retreat
in the shell of death
the sage tells you to step ahead
for the moses of times
is just blind by the rage of the matter
is a customary shatter
the bliss is real my friend you see
you are not involved in the pscychopath drama
they have crafted your nerves so well you become the cup the drama the morphine to your pains is but another tragedy a bigger one to ease the pains of the past lives
you are the serendipitous archive of the documented torture a mind can concieve or relive in the lonliness
the shutter of the blind called eyes may not blink but the urge to put inside a prickly object to bleed your self out
at least somthing should come out not a word not a sound but more and more profund silence a more psychlogical war fare
a more deadly hit
a more angered adversary
the more precise path
is that of forgiveness
your choices lead you here
you can choose a new destination
your sights must not fail
you are but an unanswered prayer
you are but an unanswered prayer...
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
I see you
Harboring pain behind the mold of a statue which cannot transform it's image
Head hanging low bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders just as Atlas
Rebuking affection trained by a shattered heart that once wasn't broken
Casting out normalcy by convincing yourself that calluses are easier hostes
Wearing black clouds for protection against offered companionship
Transforming your heart to beat with no emotion
I see you fighting a never ending battle with no survivors
Turning into a merciless cyclone taking out anyone in its way
Rebelling against souls surrounding you that desperately wish to love you
Through all the pain you wear as armour
I see you...
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
There is a little girl in a flowery sundress who is giggling and skipping through a field.
The little girl decided to make a flower crown.
She picked each flower carefully, and she examined each silk petal.
Her eyes squinting with excitement as she wove the stems together.
When she was finished she looked at the crown for a long time.
She decided that it wasn't very good.
She hated it.
She dug a hole and put the very special wilted flowers back where she found them.
She dug and dug and patted with her little fingers until the dirt was stuck in her nails.
She tried to make the little plants stand up straight again.
She couldnt.
She kept digging until she could fit in the hole quite nicely.
She reburied herself, scooting the soft dirt onto herself as she stood in the hole slowly inhaling the gritty powder.
Once she was completely buried she struggled to push her hand out of the ground.
She barely held the beautifully weak flowers just above the dirt.
The flowers needed to be beautiful again. Sacrificing herself was the only way that she could think of to make them feel normal one last time.
She was running out of air.
One breath in.
Her hand wavered as she gripped harshly onto the green stems.
One breath out.
The delicate flowers and small dirt stained fingernails slowly relaxed and layed down in the dirt to rest.
No breath in.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC