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#obituary
When I die, will my obituary say that I preferred wired headphones that I liked the slow ritual of untangling them? Will it say, that I chose oranges with thinner skin because I loved the way they opened at the press of my thumb? Will it mention the crescent of graphite smudged along the side of my hand, how I pressed too hard in my efforts to make my thoughts permanent on paper? Will it say that I waited for the pauses between songs that suspended breath between the end and the beginning? Will it record that I stood under the shower longer that needed, letting the water cool against my shoulders, because warmth is something not to be rushed? Or will it say instead, a list of dates and titles a life arranged in neat past tense? Most importantly; Will it say I graduated or I traced constellations across your shoulders in the dark? Will it say I built a career, or that I built a language out of the way you spoke my name? Will it say that I counted the hours of the night by the rise and fall of your ribs- that time moved for me in the quiet lift of your chest and its soft return? Will it say that some nights I stayed awake long after sleep found you, just to feel your breath steady the dark? Will it say that loving you rearranged my understanding of time that the future stopped being a place and started being a person? Will it say that I loved you in the smallest of ways; in refilled glasses, shared stories, in the way I turned towards you without thinking, as if my body had already learned where home was? In my death, if I am reduced to just degrees and dates, to what can be summarized, within a careful dash between two years then I was never properly seen. But if somewhere in you, the memory remains of how deliberately I loved you then I have already outlived the page.
0
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 1:06 PM UTC
hridaameena
My Obituary
When I die, will my obituary say that I preferred wired headphones that I liked the slow ritual of untangling them? Will it say, that I chose oranges with thinner skin because I loved the way they opened at the press of my thumb? Will it mention the crescent of graphite smudged along the side of my hand, how I pressed too hard in my efforts to make my thoughts permanent on paper? Will it say that I waited for the pauses between songs that suspended breath between the end and the beginning? Will it record that I stood under the shower longer that needed, letting the water cool against my shoulders, because warmth is something not to be rushed? Or will it say instead, a list of dates and titles a life arranged in neat past tense? Most importantly; Will it say I graduated or I traced constellations across your shoulders in the dark? Will it say I built a career, or that I built a language out of the way you spoke my name? Will it say that I counted the hours of the night by the rise and fall of your ribs- that time moved for me in the quiet lift of your chest and its soft return? Will it say that some nights I stayed awake long after sleep found you, just to feel your breath steady the dark? Will it say that loving you rearranged my understanding of time that the future stopped being a place and started being a person? Will it say that I loved you in the smallest of ways; in refilled glasses, shared stories, in the way I turned towards you without thinking, as if my body had already learned where home was? In my death, if I am reduced to just degrees and dates, to what can be summarized, within a careful dash between two years then I was never properly seen. But if somewhere in you, the memory remains of how deliberately I loved you then I have already outlived the page.
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60
Not today And probably not Tomorrow either But someday... Many years from now When you find my name On the obituary pages Will you have Any regrets?
0
Oct 28, 2025
Oct 28, 2025 at 9:56 AM UTC
PeterGerstenmaier
Obituary
Not today And probably not Tomorrow either But someday... Many years from now When you find my name On the obituary pages Will you have Any regrets?
Continue reading...
9
~For the master poet rr, Woody, Rich Richardson now in heaven, with Daisy, or wherever they be hiding! awkward. these words; his words, I did not write, worse yet, words, writ of me, about me… an appendage to my name, lost in the millions of comments, all that haunt my scribbles, slow dying in an internet’s blinking afterlife's half-life…of a millibyte if you know me, or think you do, at all, the thought of this ungainly praise, tho long lingered in my storage unit brain, was something to be kept,  of value, not by me discarded, till someone carts my "things " to the junk heap,                                        *(A Literary Aside:                                          and the purge of the written word                                           from an overburdened internet,                                 too full of itself,                                           is brutally 'deaccessioned,'                                           to make room for the new,                                          "more important stuff"                                           by anonymous offalofficials,                                           who live in a world where                                          all is clair, nothing is fair,                                          and the standards of them,                                          are believed to be the only ones                                           that ever, always mattered)* for no one else to keep, to for~sake, and or a momentary cherishing for~goodness~sake, no inscription in the family bible, that does not exist take these words upon the tongue of my hands, to taste them, ****** and chew them overly~slowly, revel in their pleasuring simple proud flavorings, like a desert that can never be remade, in this world of mostly never agains, place them off to one side, and then let them cry themselves to sleep upon my death, and let them die alongside my days “now nearer our god than thee" these are wistful days in my life, I have aged well beyond my 'sell by date' and lay upon a bodega shelf, priced to go, because no one would buy a clear wrapped cheese, visibly moldy, not even me, the great frugalist… I arose this day, with no intention of writing of this honorable mention, and only by fated accident, while searching for another, different prior ancient writ, once more, stubbed my eyed toes upon it, and given the calendar date, a reasoning to be remaining unnamed, the time of the year, this being the Day of Atonement, and the source of my better scripting, and a hallmark day in my life's playbill, rose up, of the page, sweetly snarling, repent, repent, repent so, unable to avoid, added to the pile of bills that familiarily affectionately marked 'unpayable,' I. last time. will speak to them, in a moody mood of contrition, knowing full too well, that this prideful venture is just another sin, that wandered in from its own piling, the one labeled, 'inexcusable deeds, unforgivable' I know, I know, too long already, too many sidecars of distraction, and as of yet, not a single word addressed direct to the substantive weight of this poem's instigating phrase. perhaps, cause I dare not speak of it, and the admixture of emotions Rick’s spell does up conjure, blatant courage are words not even in my vocab, missing from my own dictionary, when used in my connection, blatant cowardice statistically more prominent and much useable, and "to care!" that seems to me to be another dishonesty re one who has spent so many years 'caring' to explain himself to himself, an egotistical escapade, not deserving of the time invested, for the most notable factoid re me, is that there so little, absolutely, worth noting, that that is its, most notable characteristic **** child, do not protest, my~legacy, if such there were, is a, was, and a, was not, anything indistinguishable from all the rest, and caring is a dead giveaway-away, one who could write so much about his feeling owned, clearly has his priorities declared conduct unbecoming so it occurs to me what a wonderful obit, this is it (it rhymes), this would be, but I'm hearing a curmudgeonly voice, reminding me. as too usual, too long, boy, too many words, but words are free and pretty much all I've ever owned, and the one luxury of self indulgence most guilty of…and  put this with your other unimportant papers that will be incinerated when a son comes to clean out what I once called, my belongings or my-to be-longings either works…
0
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 2:20 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
"the courage to care so blatantly" (Rick Richardson)
~For the master poet rr, Woody, Rich Richardson now in heaven, with Daisy, or wherever they be hiding! awkward. these words; his words, I did not write, worse yet, words, writ of me, about me… an appendage to my name, lost in the millions of comments, all that haunt my scribbles, slow dying in an internet’s blinking afterlife's half-life…of a millibyte if you know me, or think you do, at all, the thought of this ungainly praise, tho long lingered in my storage unit brain, was something to be kept,  of value, not by me discarded, till someone carts my "things " to the junk heap,                                        *(A Literary Aside:                                          and the purge of the written word                                           from an overburdened internet,                                 too full of itself,                                           is brutally 'deaccessioned,'                                           to make room for the new,                                          "more important stuff"                                           by anonymous offalofficials,                                           who live in a world where                                          all is clair, nothing is fair,                                          and the standards of them,                                          are believed to be the only ones                                           that ever, always mattered)* for no one else to keep, to for~sake, and or a momentary cherishing for~goodness~sake, no inscription in the family bible, that does not exist take these words upon the tongue of my hands, to taste them, ****** and chew them overly~slowly, revel in their pleasuring simple proud flavorings, like a desert that can never be remade, in this world of mostly never agains, place them off to one side, and then let them cry themselves to sleep upon my death, and let them die alongside my days “now nearer our god than thee" these are wistful days in my life, I have aged well beyond my 'sell by date' and lay upon a bodega shelf, priced to go, because no one would buy a clear wrapped cheese, visibly moldy, not even me, the great frugalist… I arose this day, with no intention of writing of this honorable mention, and only by fated accident, while searching for another, different prior ancient writ, once more, stubbed my eyed toes upon it, and given the calendar date, a reasoning to be remaining unnamed, the time of the year, this being the Day of Atonement, and the source of my better scripting, and a hallmark day in my life's playbill, rose up, of the page, sweetly snarling, repent, repent, repent so, unable to avoid, added to the pile of bills that familiarily affectionately marked 'unpayable,' I. last time. will speak to them, in a moody mood of contrition, knowing full too well, that this prideful venture is just another sin, that wandered in from its own piling, the one labeled, 'inexcusable deeds, unforgivable' I know, I know, too long already, too many sidecars of distraction, and as of yet, not a single word addressed direct to the substantive weight of this poem's instigating phrase. perhaps, cause I dare not speak of it, and the admixture of emotions Rick’s spell does up conjure, blatant courage are words not even in my vocab, missing from my own dictionary, when used in my connection, blatant cowardice statistically more prominent and much useable, and "to care!" that seems to me to be another dishonesty re one who has spent so many years 'caring' to explain himself to himself, an egotistical escapade, not deserving of the time invested, for the most notable factoid re me, is that there so little, absolutely, worth noting, that that is its, most notable characteristic **** child, do not protest, my~legacy, if such there were, is a, was, and a, was not, anything indistinguishable from all the rest, and caring is a dead giveaway-away, one who could write so much about his feeling owned, clearly has his priorities declared conduct unbecoming so it occurs to me what a wonderful obit, this is it (it rhymes), this would be, but I'm hearing a curmudgeonly voice, reminding me. as too usual, too long, boy, too many words, but words are free and pretty much all I've ever owned, and the one luxury of self indulgence most guilty of…and  put this with your other unimportant papers that will be incinerated when a son comes to clean out what I once called, my belongings or my-to be-longings either works…
Continue reading...
136
Write me an obituary and come to my memorial, so we can say goodbye, to every piece of me, that ever once, was wonderful. Kiss the cold cheeks, of everything I used to be— the ways I used to believe, the things I used to see. Then you can come, and stand beside me, as I cry these tears again, for every dream inside of me, that will never live again.
0
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 5:14 PM UTC
SkylaGM
Write Me an Obituary
Write me an obituary and come to my memorial, so we can say goodbye, to every piece of me, that ever once, was wonderful. Kiss the cold cheeks, of everything I used to be— the ways I used to believe, the things I used to see. Then you can come, and stand beside me, as I cry these tears again, for every dream inside of me, that will never live again.
Continue reading...
15
Lou left! It was an unexpected cataclysm; A rogue wave in my face; A flapping jib in the lightning; A broken string As I began Yesterday. Today, I read his life's history, His likes and loves. I will replace that string, And finish the song. Before I forget, Before too long; For I was his mate In many a storm.
0
Mar 9, 2024
Mar 9, 2024 at 10:38 AM UTC
francie-lynch
Yesterday and Today
Lou left! It was an unexpected cataclysm; A rogue wave in my face; A flapping jib in the lightning; A broken string As I began Yesterday. Today, I read his life's history, His likes and loves. I will replace that string, And finish the song. Before I forget, Before too long; For I was his mate In many a storm.
Continue reading...
14
I'm an open book with the tendency to get mistook and overlooked now more than ever cause the binding and the cover are extraordinarily ordinary The frail, mousey lead character labeled fragilé and plagued with insecurity lacks any measurable or substantial substance, no originality, even the unremarkably troubled back story is unapologetically void of creativity Absolutely zero structure to the flimsy plot lines leaving the majority unfinished and frustratingly empty, holes in the Swiss cheese history are aplenty, no matter the number it's always one too many, never held any water to begin with but regardless they surface constantly, scattered with no purpose throughout condemned property The gaps in the sketchy timeline and the untimely flashbacks make it extremely difficult to follow, subsequently leaving the reader feeling uneasy, maybe even queasy Couple that with the fact that the blood, sweat and tears that poor from me onto every page render every letter a blurry mystery Ink rapidly bleeding beyond any point of legibility so I scurry into obscurity like the first bit of graffiti to hit the walls of a lost city Or unlit cave dwelling residency that sheltered the beginnings of humanity, I don't say that metaphorically, this is all factually documented as actually happenin' to me Completely being brushed over, over and over, leaves little to no room for closure, how could it be there is no retail value either even though I'm the soul owner of the one and only lonely copy I must confess that honestly it's in rough shape visually, no secrecy, anyone and everyone can easily see, so it's insincerely looked over briefly with contempt and downgraded accordingly but unfairly While momentarily left in dormancy to see if the monetary value to society rises any or will it be one to continually trend downwardly, accepting mortality At this point breathing is just a formality, I know tomorrows not a guarantee so I scribble away feverishly, going at it tirelessly, throwing words around recklessly Pointless? Quite possibly. Meaningless? Most definitely. Worthless? Well, how could it not be? I'd quickly place a bet on all three being casually mentioned in the book review, or what some of you might call my obituary It could be and seems most likely to me to be revealed that it belongs in it's own category or at the very least a separate offshoot subcategory OR, or, it could be disrespectfully decided to never even ever let it be represented digitally or physically in any online or city library across the entirety of this comically hypersensitive and ridiculously touchy country They be watching over me shoulder every day as I dot every i perfectly and diligently cross every t, proofreading religiously so they take me seriously and can't use it against me It's limited edition but surely nothin' special, hopefully still worthy of somethin', but here in reality it's realistically nothin' more than knockoff Gucci or black market Versace Sounds fishy, I know, but what else could it possibly be when I have the answer key, it's literally my story, I not only wrote but lived every word you see and it still doesn't even hold any significance or importance to me Every chapter awkwardly forced upon me, it'll clearly end horribly but I'm no visionary, not even close actually, would never catch me even trying or claiming to be I just precisely record the facts on the spot as they happened to me no matter how bizarrely scary some happen to be, it's important to me that you see what I see See, you'll see the cruelty in the issue that taunts me as it haunts me. The hot seat question then becomes can you possibly understand the conundrum that is me or even slightly comprehend my cursed duality? A comedy turned tragedy then unfortunately forced to take the back seat immediately as people barbaricly laugh mockingly at said tragedy, the jokes on me apparently and I've never found it to be very funny Notice that it both plagues my future and tarnished my history and I'm presently left with presumably only a falsely and improperly placed memory of happy Remembered as nothing but the worst of me, my eulogy will most certainly read like a roast minus any dose of comedy If you choose to take this journey and walk the path along side me you're more than likely to come to the same conclusion as me that the powers to be are stingy with the good karma while the bad energy is unnaturally loaded on all willy-nilly in spite of me with little concern for safety OSHA be ****** apparently, all it takes is the thought of me being a presence in the vicinity of you and your family to make you question both your safety and my sanity at any given moment, occasionally I'll switch it up randomly to avoid the monotony A painfully pitiful joke that seemingly seems to be getting worse optically, a ****** B movie parody of Steven Kings Misery, all pain, no joy, no money, I mean no interest, I mean no possibility of a remedy A mocumentary if you will, but the pain is real still and it's going steady, a run on sentence dragged out endlessly through a raging sea of emotionally charged assault and self battery that continually thrash relentlessly all around me The weight of my world has always been too heavy since all the way back in my infancy, flip to the first couple pages to jog your memory if need be, then take and make a mental note that today I'm pushing 40 Holy **** that's a long time to knowingly be held in captivity,  I've already been through it and the recap still surprisingly hits me hard with a backing of PTSD Your cross is just a fashion accessory, my cross drags in the dirt behind me and wasn't set properly, shoulders barely able support it and I couldn't transfer the load any So I grab a penny for each eye, yet another money based payment ritual for the ferry man to finish the last chapter the best he can with mixed in commentary from the peanut gallery that'll ultimately reveal my true identity and destiny hidden in the smoke screen of my twisted personality The one predicted by the aforementioned conflicting and confusing history, though obviously if you've been following closely at all you've seen the rate of my fall and calculated it's trajectory down to the nth degree It has always been and will continue to be aimed directly at the fiery lake for all eternity, not much different than where I reside currently so really I'm in no hurry if its more or less going to be the same scenery I guess if you want to be a **** about it you could probably make the argument that my life played out accordingly, regardless, I'm getting what's owed to me cause I bucked conformity and normality, spit in the face of misplaced authority Whoa is me? Yeah no, whoa is you buddy, you should worry because the last page doesn't mean end of story necessarily, I'll live on in your thoughts as something far more scary See, I wouldn't be able hurt you or even touch you physically but I'll guarantee to use my literacy platform to completely destroy your psyche like what was so savagely and aggressively done to me, looking back that's all I see I've sighted every atrocity three pages from the back glossary if you ever have the need to fact check me, again, feel free but know that my story board is messy, I'm not use to entertaining company The facts get a little bit more hazy every day and where slapped together haphazardly with no rhyme or reason to what I have too say, not a thread of continuity, and you can go on and forget about decency, that word isn't even in my dictionary I want to take this opportunity to openly welcome anybody that can hear me to read my diary, I've made it easy and removed the lock and key, humor me and start with my autobiography Get to know your enemy, you'll find what to use against me personally but also what I'll do to wipe you from my minds eye permanently before you grace the pages of my memory Take this as a priority mail special delivery type promise inside a threat spread widely through a reputable distribution company And now, since having the rare opportunity to slowly but fully get to know me just a wee better, you must know then that to doubt me is stupid risky, just facts here, no theory of relativity May I suggest you completely drop expectations and turn each page carefully, it's not for the faint of heart obviously, don't approach this carelessly or it could consume you entirely, but that's not my responsibility Erie from the start, so it'd be smart to get ready, it's about to get heavy, prepare yourself mentally, this is the type of gory, all guts no glory underdog revenge ****** mystery story that wouldn't even make late night cable tv Though it'd truly be funny to slap a PG rating on the first copy just to watch them fully lose their **** and collectively scramble to get said copy pulled indefinitely Anyway, no movie adaptation in the works, no straight to DVD release party and that's all fine by me, I ain't even angry about it really, okay, maybe I am a little grumpy but that comes with the contemporary territory Read it, don't read it, buy it legitimately or steal a copy, it's all the same to me, everything you need to know, and some **** you wish you didn't, is right here in the typography From living righteously to becoming a bully to getting lost in my own hypocrisy, it's all laid out lazily for every single truth seeker and neigh sayer to see There's nothing left to say anyway so pretty please, once free from the pages, can you finally, quietly but quickly, leave and just let me be me? I'd appreciate it emencly Alrighty, let's begin shall we. -Chapter one-       Our story both begins and ends in the same fashion in that neither needed to happen and the fact that they both did changed nothin', a breath of life wasted on a nobody with nothin' left to offer but what's left of the shattered dignity and pride, otherwise emptiness resides and we'll be taking a look back through pain filled eyes, recounting the rise and fall, the crippling journey and what ultimately triggered this poor man's untimely demise... ©2022
0
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 4:03 PM UTC
bettsjc187
~•§•~ Best of the Worst ~•§•~
I'm an open book with the tendency to get mistook and overlooked now more than ever cause the binding and the cover are extraordinarily ordinary The frail, mousey lead character labeled fragilé and plagued with insecurity lacks any measurable or substantial substance, no originality, even the unremarkably troubled back story is unapologetically void of creativity Absolutely zero structure to the flimsy plot lines leaving the majority unfinished and frustratingly empty, holes in the Swiss cheese history are aplenty, no matter the number it's always one too many, never held any water to begin with but regardless they surface constantly, scattered with no purpose throughout condemned property The gaps in the sketchy timeline and the untimely flashbacks make it extremely difficult to follow, subsequently leaving the reader feeling uneasy, maybe even queasy Couple that with the fact that the blood, sweat and tears that poor from me onto every page render every letter a blurry mystery Ink rapidly bleeding beyond any point of legibility so I scurry into obscurity like the first bit of graffiti to hit the walls of a lost city Or unlit cave dwelling residency that sheltered the beginnings of humanity, I don't say that metaphorically, this is all factually documented as actually happenin' to me Completely being brushed over, over and over, leaves little to no room for closure, how could it be there is no retail value either even though I'm the soul owner of the one and only lonely copy I must confess that honestly it's in rough shape visually, no secrecy, anyone and everyone can easily see, so it's insincerely looked over briefly with contempt and downgraded accordingly but unfairly While momentarily left in dormancy to see if the monetary value to society rises any or will it be one to continually trend downwardly, accepting mortality At this point breathing is just a formality, I know tomorrows not a guarantee so I scribble away feverishly, going at it tirelessly, throwing words around recklessly Pointless? Quite possibly. Meaningless? Most definitely. Worthless? Well, how could it not be? I'd quickly place a bet on all three being casually mentioned in the book review, or what some of you might call my obituary It could be and seems most likely to me to be revealed that it belongs in it's own category or at the very least a separate offshoot subcategory OR, or, it could be disrespectfully decided to never even ever let it be represented digitally or physically in any online or city library across the entirety of this comically hypersensitive and ridiculously touchy country They be watching over me shoulder every day as I dot every i perfectly and diligently cross every t, proofreading religiously so they take me seriously and can't use it against me It's limited edition but surely nothin' special, hopefully still worthy of somethin', but here in reality it's realistically nothin' more than knockoff Gucci or black market Versace Sounds fishy, I know, but what else could it possibly be when I have the answer key, it's literally my story, I not only wrote but lived every word you see and it still doesn't even hold any significance or importance to me Every chapter awkwardly forced upon me, it'll clearly end horribly but I'm no visionary, not even close actually, would never catch me even trying or claiming to be I just precisely record the facts on the spot as they happened to me no matter how bizarrely scary some happen to be, it's important to me that you see what I see See, you'll see the cruelty in the issue that taunts me as it haunts me. The hot seat question then becomes can you possibly understand the conundrum that is me or even slightly comprehend my cursed duality? A comedy turned tragedy then unfortunately forced to take the back seat immediately as people barbaricly laugh mockingly at said tragedy, the jokes on me apparently and I've never found it to be very funny Notice that it both plagues my future and tarnished my history and I'm presently left with presumably only a falsely and improperly placed memory of happy Remembered as nothing but the worst of me, my eulogy will most certainly read like a roast minus any dose of comedy If you choose to take this journey and walk the path along side me you're more than likely to come to the same conclusion as me that the powers to be are stingy with the good karma while the bad energy is unnaturally loaded on all willy-nilly in spite of me with little concern for safety OSHA be ****** apparently, all it takes is the thought of me being a presence in the vicinity of you and your family to make you question both your safety and my sanity at any given moment, occasionally I'll switch it up randomly to avoid the monotony A painfully pitiful joke that seemingly seems to be getting worse optically, a ****** B movie parody of Steven Kings Misery, all pain, no joy, no money, I mean no interest, I mean no possibility of a remedy A mocumentary if you will, but the pain is real still and it's going steady, a run on sentence dragged out endlessly through a raging sea of emotionally charged assault and self battery that continually thrash relentlessly all around me The weight of my world has always been too heavy since all the way back in my infancy, flip to the first couple pages to jog your memory if need be, then take and make a mental note that today I'm pushing 40 Holy **** that's a long time to knowingly be held in captivity,  I've already been through it and the recap still surprisingly hits me hard with a backing of PTSD Your cross is just a fashion accessory, my cross drags in the dirt behind me and wasn't set properly, shoulders barely able support it and I couldn't transfer the load any So I grab a penny for each eye, yet another money based payment ritual for the ferry man to finish the last chapter the best he can with mixed in commentary from the peanut gallery that'll ultimately reveal my true identity and destiny hidden in the smoke screen of my twisted personality The one predicted by the aforementioned conflicting and confusing history, though obviously if you've been following closely at all you've seen the rate of my fall and calculated it's trajectory down to the nth degree It has always been and will continue to be aimed directly at the fiery lake for all eternity, not much different than where I reside currently so really I'm in no hurry if its more or less going to be the same scenery I guess if you want to be a **** about it you could probably make the argument that my life played out accordingly, regardless, I'm getting what's owed to me cause I bucked conformity and normality, spit in the face of misplaced authority Whoa is me? Yeah no, whoa is you buddy, you should worry because the last page doesn't mean end of story necessarily, I'll live on in your thoughts as something far more scary See, I wouldn't be able hurt you or even touch you physically but I'll guarantee to use my literacy platform to completely destroy your psyche like what was so savagely and aggressively done to me, looking back that's all I see I've sighted every atrocity three pages from the back glossary if you ever have the need to fact check me, again, feel free but know that my story board is messy, I'm not use to entertaining company The facts get a little bit more hazy every day and where slapped together haphazardly with no rhyme or reason to what I have too say, not a thread of continuity, and you can go on and forget about decency, that word isn't even in my dictionary I want to take this opportunity to openly welcome anybody that can hear me to read my diary, I've made it easy and removed the lock and key, humor me and start with my autobiography Get to know your enemy, you'll find what to use against me personally but also what I'll do to wipe you from my minds eye permanently before you grace the pages of my memory Take this as a priority mail special delivery type promise inside a threat spread widely through a reputable distribution company And now, since having the rare opportunity to slowly but fully get to know me just a wee better, you must know then that to doubt me is stupid risky, just facts here, no theory of relativity May I suggest you completely drop expectations and turn each page carefully, it's not for the faint of heart obviously, don't approach this carelessly or it could consume you entirely, but that's not my responsibility Erie from the start, so it'd be smart to get ready, it's about to get heavy, prepare yourself mentally, this is the type of gory, all guts no glory underdog revenge ****** mystery story that wouldn't even make late night cable tv Though it'd truly be funny to slap a PG rating on the first copy just to watch them fully lose their **** and collectively scramble to get said copy pulled indefinitely Anyway, no movie adaptation in the works, no straight to DVD release party and that's all fine by me, I ain't even angry about it really, okay, maybe I am a little grumpy but that comes with the contemporary territory Read it, don't read it, buy it legitimately or steal a copy, it's all the same to me, everything you need to know, and some **** you wish you didn't, is right here in the typography From living righteously to becoming a bully to getting lost in my own hypocrisy, it's all laid out lazily for every single truth seeker and neigh sayer to see There's nothing left to say anyway so pretty please, once free from the pages, can you finally, quietly but quickly, leave and just let me be me? I'd appreciate it emencly Alrighty, let's begin shall we. -Chapter one-       Our story both begins and ends in the same fashion in that neither needed to happen and the fact that they both did changed nothin', a breath of life wasted on a nobody with nothin' left to offer but what's left of the shattered dignity and pride, otherwise emptiness resides and we'll be taking a look back through pain filled eyes, recounting the rise and fall, the crippling journey and what ultimately triggered this poor man's untimely demise... ©2022
Continue reading...
53
I wake with stone eyes that plaster tears through my crevices; petrifying my momentum. I'm stuck here perpetually, praying only to those who can't hear. I'm a stone wall; a mountain that passes no breeze. I solidify in this coffin waiting bitterly for a lovers kiss that will never come. for my worth isn't written on my lips; its plastered on my obituary.
0
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 2:10 PM UTC
KHY
life as an agonized man
I wake with stone eyes that plaster tears through my crevices; petrifying my momentum. I'm stuck here perpetually, praying only to those who can't hear. I'm a stone wall; a mountain that passes no breeze. I solidify in this coffin waiting bitterly for a lovers kiss that will never come. for my worth isn't written on my lips; its plastered on my obituary.
Continue reading...
12
an obituary page used aluminum foil whiskey bottle glimpse of a shadow shadow of a man forever stuck there orange and yellow leaves crumpled breath muttering aching heart aching feet wandering nowhere tuesday songlist
0
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 2:55 PM UTC
GaryL
Tuesday Songlist
an obituary page used aluminum foil whiskey bottle glimpse of a shadow shadow of a man forever stuck there orange and yellow leaves crumpled breath muttering aching heart aching feet wandering nowhere tuesday songlist
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13
When someone leaves, what remains? An “in memory of” on Facebook, a black-and-white profile picture, a last post with 360 likes, a music video 8 unread WhatsApp messages, 1 grey tick instead of 2 in a group chat Nocturnal analysing of your social media accounts, finding truth in between your Instagram captions Your last statement to the world, a peace emoji just above said music video The question if this is what peace looked like for you The question if it really was peaceful The question what crossed your mind, 1 millisecond before the world before your eyes turned into a black void forever The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the first time The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the last time The question where souls, if they exist, go when someone dies The question what state of aggregation souls have The question if you’re now air, soil or both A cold shiver when I find the ad for your room, published 4 weeks ago. You were always looking ahead. Your books and files meticulously arranged in one of the pictures, neat as a pin The question how it must have had looked inside of you. Was it the chaos or were you tired of cleaning up? Did you have windows, could you see outside? When someone knocked, did you open? When did you realize the light switch? When did you decide to turn the lights off? When someone leaves, what remains? An empty room Unread messages People reacting with that crying emoji on all your posts Memories Things you’ve left undone Anger, sympathy, maybe someday absolution Anguish, fright Thoughts about your family Good reasons, bad reasons Philosophy Compassion An obituary in the local newspaper An iPhone with no battery A voicemail leading directly into nothingness An as good as new e-piano, only 5 weeks old A rancid peace of butter in the back of your fridge Administrative workload An incomplete mission Questions without answers.
0
Dec 18, 2020
Dec 18, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
maledimiele
What remains?
When someone leaves, what remains? An “in memory of” on Facebook, a black-and-white profile picture, a last post with 360 likes, a music video 8 unread WhatsApp messages, 1 grey tick instead of 2 in a group chat Nocturnal analysing of your social media accounts, finding truth in between your Instagram captions Your last statement to the world, a peace emoji just above said music video The question if this is what peace looked like for you The question if it really was peaceful The question what crossed your mind, 1 millisecond before the world before your eyes turned into a black void forever The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the first time The question when you thought about becoming a memory for the last time The question where souls, if they exist, go when someone dies The question what state of aggregation souls have The question if you’re now air, soil or both A cold shiver when I find the ad for your room, published 4 weeks ago. You were always looking ahead. Your books and files meticulously arranged in one of the pictures, neat as a pin The question how it must have had looked inside of you. Was it the chaos or were you tired of cleaning up? Did you have windows, could you see outside? When someone knocked, did you open? When did you realize the light switch? When did you decide to turn the lights off? When someone leaves, what remains? An empty room Unread messages People reacting with that crying emoji on all your posts Memories Things you’ve left undone Anger, sympathy, maybe someday absolution Anguish, fright Thoughts about your family Good reasons, bad reasons Philosophy Compassion An obituary in the local newspaper An iPhone with no battery A voicemail leading directly into nothingness An as good as new e-piano, only 5 weeks old A rancid peace of butter in the back of your fridge Administrative workload An incomplete mission Questions without answers.
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36
Bury all my entrails. Y otros deshielos, Sin ningún cubrimiento Literal o no, Sin tumba de piedra Ni flores ya matados Para mi indulgencia. En un bosque. Tenero e silenzioso, Ma della grandezza Dell’Allah creato, Al lado de un árbol Que me elegirá Por debajo de la tierra. No coffin, Priests, City Nor money. Planter pépins Et autres Futures vies Dans ma tombe pour que Mon corps puisse alimenter Ces pousses du sol. Pour que les racines Me donnent bienvenue Chez ma Maison enfin Et qu’elles M’embrassent. Spread into the world All the tears & blades Of my guilts & glories, Publish one way or another My mission/ Legacy/ Work to them With due dedication Said. Don’t recall my intelligence Or talent, Rather all beauties I was & gave life to, My Passion in my Chosen things, My love, Heraldry, Striving for beating the measlyness Of this world out of Or in me, My wisdom. How I placed my eyes, Poems and efforts upon you And on this state of things’ world, How Language, Literature, Words, Dreams, Tears and Art celebrated my Days alongside me as true People indeed. How I fought shame and death, Longed to make you feel My gaze’s intensity on (Or not) you, How I kept facing lies Of useless withering Despite ingenuity of mine. I shall finally embrace Eywa/Allah/God/The Moon And see if I was worth it all In the end. I will probably finally meet My Lover dearest To see if they were there after all And kiss them with the greatest Fervor I can muster. I will become all those things Lingering in the air And coming to your gut Knittances When you sense And as much suddenly Can’t explain. No more will I have to eat, Sleep, Be clothed (in muzzle) Or wear shoes. No more will anyone make me Care about how my vessel Looks like. Join my departure, All you To whom I’ve ever mattered More than casual, Join my freedom. Live, strive, Breath at last, Poetise, Think, love, wonder/wander, Feel, read, touch, And literally kiss the Trees, sky And all sacralities you are in/on. And if I hadn’t completed My mission yet, I’ll do what I can To be back And linger To Make It. Thank you.
0
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 12:57 PM UTC
DanRo
Entry in Prose of Leaving
Bury all my entrails. Y otros deshielos, Sin ningún cubrimiento Literal o no, Sin tumba de piedra Ni flores ya matados Para mi indulgencia. En un bosque. Tenero e silenzioso, Ma della grandezza Dell’Allah creato, Al lado de un árbol Que me elegirá Por debajo de la tierra. No coffin, Priests, City Nor money. Planter pépins Et autres Futures vies Dans ma tombe pour que Mon corps puisse alimenter Ces pousses du sol. Pour que les racines Me donnent bienvenue Chez ma Maison enfin Et qu’elles M’embrassent. Spread into the world All the tears & blades Of my guilts & glories, Publish one way or another My mission/ Legacy/ Work to them With due dedication Said. Don’t recall my intelligence Or talent, Rather all beauties I was & gave life to, My Passion in my Chosen things, My love, Heraldry, Striving for beating the measlyness Of this world out of Or in me, My wisdom. How I placed my eyes, Poems and efforts upon you And on this state of things’ world, How Language, Literature, Words, Dreams, Tears and Art celebrated my Days alongside me as true People indeed. How I fought shame and death, Longed to make you feel My gaze’s intensity on (Or not) you, How I kept facing lies Of useless withering Despite ingenuity of mine. I shall finally embrace Eywa/Allah/God/The Moon And see if I was worth it all In the end. I will probably finally meet My Lover dearest To see if they were there after all And kiss them with the greatest Fervor I can muster. I will become all those things Lingering in the air And coming to your gut Knittances When you sense And as much suddenly Can’t explain. No more will I have to eat, Sleep, Be clothed (in muzzle) Or wear shoes. No more will anyone make me Care about how my vessel Looks like. Join my departure, All you To whom I’ve ever mattered More than casual, Join my freedom. Live, strive, Breath at last, Poetise, Think, love, wonder/wander, Feel, read, touch, And literally kiss the Trees, sky And all sacralities you are in/on. And if I hadn’t completed My mission yet, I’ll do what I can To be back And linger To Make It. Thank you.
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110
3 years ago my teacher asked me to write my own obituary, as an exercise in self-study... I wrote that I was a good mother...     Was I?     Am I? I’m not perfect!         Like every other mother... Please don’t judge me! Please don’t judge anyone! Even your mother... Was she ever perfect?     Were you?         Yes!.. The moment you were born.... You were a perfect baby, Your mom was a perfect mother...         Then.... Life happens... and happens... and happens... Love happens too... So much love...     So much milk...         So much sweat...             So much tears.... How can I write my own obituary?
0
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 2:15 AM UTC
sonya_sofia
my own obituary
3 years ago my teacher asked me to write my own obituary, as an exercise in self-study... I wrote that I was a good mother...     Was I?     Am I? I’m not perfect!         Like every other mother... Please don’t judge me! Please don’t judge anyone! Even your mother... Was she ever perfect?     Were you?         Yes!.. The moment you were born.... You were a perfect baby, Your mom was a perfect mother...         Then.... Life happens... and happens... and happens... Love happens too... So much love...     So much milk...         So much sweat...             So much tears.... How can I write my own obituary?
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25
i gratefully mourn your tragedy and thank you for providing charity toward my meaning i’ve followed your information for a long time and though i longed for a more extensive feed the manner of your exit drama... ..the piece was both satisfying and complete myself ? i’ll leave a dim reading behind when my individual concept ceases few shall take a personal interest this is fine also                                - an onlooker
0
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
neth-jones
also [a response to a celebrity obituary]
i gratefully mourn your tragedy and thank you for providing charity toward my meaning i’ve followed your information for a long time and though i longed for a more extensive feed the manner of your exit drama... ..the piece was both satisfying and complete myself ? i’ll leave a dim reading behind when my individual concept ceases few shall take a personal interest this is fine also                                - an onlooker
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14
If you died tomorrow could I write your obituary? It would start of course with your name, birthday, the day you died what school you went to I could say the Before you had two dogs and a cat you loved to rock-climb and do logic puzzles Math was your thing it never was mine your hand always shot up into the air faster than I could think You liked doing back bends, and flips with me supporting you, on the lawn we floated from friend group to friend group not really staying, or clinging on You invited me to a sleepover just you and me before our seventh-grade dance sleeping on your floor as happy as can be we had no secrets to tell as we fell asleep we were that close And then came the After now that I could not write I guess I could say "She got straight A's in high school and had many friends. She had inside jokes with the people she met" I think Writing the During would be just too painful what could I say? It was a text then a letter reply You couldn't "thank me enough" For what we had That's not an obituary I can't write that I could write the Before and then pass it on to your new friends, any friend because for me, you are gone except for the sliver in my heart Survived by mom, dad, and younger sister
0
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
creativespillingsofebk
If you died tomorrow
If you died tomorrow could I write your obituary? It would start of course with your name, birthday, the day you died what school you went to I could say the Before you had two dogs and a cat you loved to rock-climb and do logic puzzles Math was your thing it never was mine your hand always shot up into the air faster than I could think You liked doing back bends, and flips with me supporting you, on the lawn we floated from friend group to friend group not really staying, or clinging on You invited me to a sleepover just you and me before our seventh-grade dance sleeping on your floor as happy as can be we had no secrets to tell as we fell asleep we were that close And then came the After now that I could not write I guess I could say "She got straight A's in high school and had many friends. She had inside jokes with the people she met" I think Writing the During would be just too painful what could I say? It was a text then a letter reply You couldn't "thank me enough" For what we had That's not an obituary I can't write that I could write the Before and then pass it on to your new friends, any friend because for me, you are gone except for the sliver in my heart Survived by mom, dad, and younger sister
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50
Charlie was my pet rat. She died in my arms this morning. Her birthday was a week away and even though I knew she was old and frail nothing could have prepared me for it. My boyfriend found her leaning against the side of her cage confused. I had no idea how long she had been like that. I held her for hours while I waited for my mom to take us to the vet to say goodbye. She had a stroke so half of her body didn't work, she didn't have control of her tongue or left eye. After a few minutes she seemed less confused as she recognized my scent and heartbeat. Since her eyelids didn't work anymore I had to help her blink. Her tongue didn't work so I slowly let water and yogurt run down her throat so she wouldn't be dehydrated or hungry. This was the first time we ever cuddled, she never slowed down enough to be held for longer than a couple minutes She was the reason a group of rats are called mischief If there was trouble.to get into you know she'd be leading everyone else to it. She would be your best friend if you shared your food and would still love you when you didn't She loved her chin scratched and tried to eat my **** a few times. Even at the end of her life she'd still chitter her teeth and boggle every time I'd put my lips to her little forehead. Even in death her beautiful soul and pure love lit up the room She passed a couple seconds after my mom walked through my front door. After I took her to the vet to get her paw prints he promised me she went peacefully. That she felt no pain and the DMT in her brain made sure she was happy. At least she wasn't alone. I hiked into the mountains walking down the river with my best friend in a box till I found the spot her old friends were buried. As I write this that spot and moment feels so far away. Like it was some ghost of myself that held her through the seizures and that covered her body in dirt. I feel like my spirit left with hers. Her love, like all animals was pure. She never loved because of what I gave to her, she loved me for me. She was my Charlie, my Char char, my charbean, my little ragdoll, my food *** my little derp, and occasionally my little ******** She was my optimism and the silver lining to every bad day. But most importantly she was my baby and I promised to love her forever and even though she is gone I will always keep my promise.
0
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Xander-King
Obituary for a rat named Charlie
Charlie was my pet rat. She died in my arms this morning. Her birthday was a week away and even though I knew she was old and frail nothing could have prepared me for it. My boyfriend found her leaning against the side of her cage confused. I had no idea how long she had been like that. I held her for hours while I waited for my mom to take us to the vet to say goodbye. She had a stroke so half of her body didn't work, she didn't have control of her tongue or left eye. After a few minutes she seemed less confused as she recognized my scent and heartbeat. Since her eyelids didn't work anymore I had to help her blink. Her tongue didn't work so I slowly let water and yogurt run down her throat so she wouldn't be dehydrated or hungry. This was the first time we ever cuddled, she never slowed down enough to be held for longer than a couple minutes She was the reason a group of rats are called mischief If there was trouble.to get into you know she'd be leading everyone else to it. She would be your best friend if you shared your food and would still love you when you didn't She loved her chin scratched and tried to eat my **** a few times. Even at the end of her life she'd still chitter her teeth and boggle every time I'd put my lips to her little forehead. Even in death her beautiful soul and pure love lit up the room She passed a couple seconds after my mom walked through my front door. After I took her to the vet to get her paw prints he promised me she went peacefully. That she felt no pain and the DMT in her brain made sure she was happy. At least she wasn't alone. I hiked into the mountains walking down the river with my best friend in a box till I found the spot her old friends were buried. As I write this that spot and moment feels so far away. Like it was some ghost of myself that held her through the seizures and that covered her body in dirt. I feel like my spirit left with hers. Her love, like all animals was pure. She never loved because of what I gave to her, she loved me for me. She was my Charlie, my Char char, my charbean, my little ragdoll, my food *** my little derp, and occasionally my little ******** She was my optimism and the silver lining to every bad day. But most importantly she was my baby and I promised to love her forever and even though she is gone I will always keep my promise.
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28
He died of a chronically broken heart, having fallen in love with the spark in almost everyone he met. It was always some combination of their beauty, talent, and personality. While he was always supportive of them and did his best to make them feel good, he was too afraid to tell them what he felt. Those little secrets tore his heart to shreds and he slowly withered away.
0
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
Trevor_Dowe
Obituary
He died of a chronically broken heart, having fallen in love with the spark in almost everyone he met. It was always some combination of their beauty, talent, and personality. While he was always supportive of them and did his best to make them feel good, he was too afraid to tell them what he felt. Those little secrets tore his heart to shreds and he slowly withered away.
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1
I remember hurricane Katrina And how it ravaged your state, you wanted to wait it out Sit on the roof and watch the flood water disintegrate all you knew I wasn't there but I have implanted memories of you and your father Smoking cigarettes on top of your house Laughing about the rage of nature I remember skipping school in elementary We used to walk down the paths and go into the woods and douse ourselves in creek water And there was nothing I knew better than your face at this time You were my brother and my best friend And I begrudgingly remember you strung out and treating me like **** But I knew it wasn't you who was getting kicked out of my house It was the ****** and whatever else it might've been I never thought you'd die alone With not much to say for- Not much to live for, I guess But I knew you lived for us, Sam and I Because when mom went you knew we needed help And you were the big brother, and we were your precious sisters There's nothing poetic about the way you left us at young 34 years old And I will never forgive black tar and needles I hope the boat you depart on burns to nothing but your ashes And the sea takes you to a place better than ****** ever could I never thought I'd see the day your name made it to the papers Maybe as a success, maybe as a life that was made out to be something beautiful But instead, I've seen you in the obituaries Justin Colter Stilling, That name belongs to death now. I wish I could see you off on your trip to the other side But instead I'll be wasting away remembering you for what you were And it makes me wonder, how and why We all have to die
0
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
aviendha-goodrich
justin colter stilling
I remember hurricane Katrina And how it ravaged your state, you wanted to wait it out Sit on the roof and watch the flood water disintegrate all you knew I wasn't there but I have implanted memories of you and your father Smoking cigarettes on top of your house Laughing about the rage of nature I remember skipping school in elementary We used to walk down the paths and go into the woods and douse ourselves in creek water And there was nothing I knew better than your face at this time You were my brother and my best friend And I begrudgingly remember you strung out and treating me like **** But I knew it wasn't you who was getting kicked out of my house It was the ****** and whatever else it might've been I never thought you'd die alone With not much to say for- Not much to live for, I guess But I knew you lived for us, Sam and I Because when mom went you knew we needed help And you were the big brother, and we were your precious sisters There's nothing poetic about the way you left us at young 34 years old And I will never forgive black tar and needles I hope the boat you depart on burns to nothing but your ashes And the sea takes you to a place better than ****** ever could I never thought I'd see the day your name made it to the papers Maybe as a success, maybe as a life that was made out to be something beautiful But instead, I've seen you in the obituaries Justin Colter Stilling, That name belongs to death now. I wish I could see you off on your trip to the other side But instead I'll be wasting away remembering you for what you were And it makes me wonder, how and why We all have to die
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32
he eschewed the label, “Native American,” for he was ***** and he wasn't ashamed he liked his spirits dollar wine worked as well cirrhosis was a family trait though he didn't learn the word until an army doc admonished him, saying he would earn the curse by 45, if he kept it up and he did, even more after that crazy Asian war, where he killed a half dozen men they called yellow, though to Walter, they looked to be his emaciated brown cousins he could stand tall, straight with a pint of rot gut in him, burning his belly, but not causing his head to spin though it helped him block them out: those he did not know; those he slaughtered like lambs with the gun they issued him; those who inhabited a space just behind his eyes whenever they closed, night or day someone found him, in his pickup bed dead from exposure, from too many years on the bottle, too many dreams he tried to drown and too many ghosts to haunt his nights Gallup, New Mexico, 1999
0
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
spysgrandson
the short life of Walter Smallshadow (series, “Other Obits”)
he eschewed the label, “Native American,” for he was ***** and he wasn't ashamed he liked his spirits dollar wine worked as well cirrhosis was a family trait though he didn't learn the word until an army doc admonished him, saying he would earn the curse by 45, if he kept it up and he did, even more after that crazy Asian war, where he killed a half dozen men they called yellow, though to Walter, they looked to be his emaciated brown cousins he could stand tall, straight with a pint of rot gut in him, burning his belly, but not causing his head to spin though it helped him block them out: those he did not know; those he slaughtered like lambs with the gun they issued him; those who inhabited a space just behind his eyes whenever they closed, night or day someone found him, in his pickup bed dead from exposure, from too many years on the bottle, too many dreams he tried to drown and too many ghosts to haunt his nights Gallup, New Mexico, 1999
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25
Oh my dear friend where are you? Till yesterday we fought we argued we discussed we debated we agreed we disagreed we agreed to disagree we learnt from each other or at least I learnt a lot from you.. But Oh my dear friend where are you? We said goodbye in the late evening at the side of the road Leading to your abode On a Tuesday night Only to hear that You had gone away With out a word the next day! I still remember your smiling face your sparkling eyes through your glasses your sharp and crisp words your simplicity your sense of humour your no-nonsense approach to things your straightforwardness your firm but friendly voice You left me on the highway Not to return only your memories will linger in my mind till I find another friend just like you which is impossible for you are so much inside me.. Oh my dear friend where are you..? Even after all these days I feel you as my pillion rider at the back of my bike. Oh my dear friend, where are you..?
0
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
tprmenon
Obituary to a Lost friend
Oh my dear friend where are you? Till yesterday we fought we argued we discussed we debated we agreed we disagreed we agreed to disagree we learnt from each other or at least I learnt a lot from you.. But Oh my dear friend where are you? We said goodbye in the late evening at the side of the road Leading to your abode On a Tuesday night Only to hear that You had gone away With out a word the next day! I still remember your smiling face your sparkling eyes through your glasses your sharp and crisp words your simplicity your sense of humour your no-nonsense approach to things your straightforwardness your firm but friendly voice You left me on the highway Not to return only your memories will linger in my mind till I find another friend just like you which is impossible for you are so much inside me.. Oh my dear friend where are you..? Even after all these days I feel you as my pillion rider at the back of my bike. Oh my dear friend, where are you..?
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47
I did not want to write a poem titled obituary because I was worried that it would become about you. I did not want to read a poem about you out loud because I did not want anything that I wrote for you to fly away from me like you could have flown away from me, but this poem isn’t about you anymore, it’s about me. This poem is about everything I could have written my own obituary about. I was made out of the kind of smiles that show your teeth and I was always made out of the kind of skin that nobody thought they were going to need to turn into metaphors. and my scars are as pink and white as anyone else’s scars, my bruises don’t look like flowers, they look like tiny blood vessels under my skin have burst. I do not want my obituary to say that I was a valued member of a community I did not feel safe in, I wrote this poem as I dissolved in a hotel room in yokohama, I wrote my obituary once on a bus ride home from school, I wrote a suicide note on the back of a US history assignment that I never turned in, I write my own obituary once a month, sometimes once a week. I am not broken. I am not sad, not shattered. I am building an altar inside of bones that don’t usually have poems written about them. I wrote down all the words I couldn’t pronounce without breathing, and I wrote it in ink but it may as well have been blood.
0
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
crashchord
Obituary
I did not want to write a poem titled obituary because I was worried that it would become about you. I did not want to read a poem about you out loud because I did not want anything that I wrote for you to fly away from me like you could have flown away from me, but this poem isn’t about you anymore, it’s about me. This poem is about everything I could have written my own obituary about. I was made out of the kind of smiles that show your teeth and I was always made out of the kind of skin that nobody thought they were going to need to turn into metaphors. and my scars are as pink and white as anyone else’s scars, my bruises don’t look like flowers, they look like tiny blood vessels under my skin have burst. I do not want my obituary to say that I was a valued member of a community I did not feel safe in, I wrote this poem as I dissolved in a hotel room in yokohama, I wrote my obituary once on a bus ride home from school, I wrote a suicide note on the back of a US history assignment that I never turned in, I write my own obituary once a month, sometimes once a week. I am not broken. I am not sad, not shattered. I am building an altar inside of bones that don’t usually have poems written about them. I wrote down all the words I couldn’t pronounce without breathing, and I wrote it in ink but it may as well have been blood.
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1
If I had known that I was going to be the last man inside you, not long before your last breath left your lungs and escaped your body along with your tortured soul, I would have saved us both the time and trouble. Let love be! Oh naive me! Of course we both knew the troubles your mind conjured, and maybe my lack of intimacy was torturous, however, not all of the sweating and moaning could be forsaken, as foreplay was eased into, which was wrongly confused as a careless flick of the wrist. But I suppose you knew your body better, and could take yourself places that no one else ever could without having their arms pulled behind the back and secured tightly, because when you flicked your own wrist and became wet and flush, the only moaning you did was accompanied with wincing eyes and curled toes. Now I'm reading the newspaper, and your name sticks out, screaming at me, exclaiming riddles that you can never answer. And the one that leaves me the most unnerved is the one right before me, becoming moistened by misunderstood teardrops. What is black and white and red all over? I ask you, but I know now that you can never again answer my call. So I'm left with only one of two options, both of which feel like a handful. I can delicately place a flower atop your new home among the rest, or I can palm dirt as you are slowly lowered down and covered with the mound that lay beside the congregation that finishes their final goodbyes.
0
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
charlie-chirico
Noose Paper
If I had known that I was going to be the last man inside you, not long before your last breath left your lungs and escaped your body along with your tortured soul, I would have saved us both the time and trouble. Let love be! Oh naive me! Of course we both knew the troubles your mind conjured, and maybe my lack of intimacy was torturous, however, not all of the sweating and moaning could be forsaken, as foreplay was eased into, which was wrongly confused as a careless flick of the wrist. But I suppose you knew your body better, and could take yourself places that no one else ever could without having their arms pulled behind the back and secured tightly, because when you flicked your own wrist and became wet and flush, the only moaning you did was accompanied with wincing eyes and curled toes. Now I'm reading the newspaper, and your name sticks out, screaming at me, exclaiming riddles that you can never answer. And the one that leaves me the most unnerved is the one right before me, becoming moistened by misunderstood teardrops. What is black and white and red all over? I ask you, but I know now that you can never again answer my call. So I'm left with only one of two options, both of which feel like a handful. I can delicately place a flower atop your new home among the rest, or I can palm dirt as you are slowly lowered down and covered with the mound that lay beside the congregation that finishes their final goodbyes.
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48
My grandaughter's great grandmother On her paternal side, Died. Aine's grandmother's name Is Rose, The daughter of Mae They meet again Some day.
0
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
francie-lynch
The Last Mae of Rose
My grandaughter's great grandmother On her paternal side, Died. Aine's grandmother's name Is Rose, The daughter of Mae They meet again Some day.
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9
*Buried in the walls of an abandoned house You will find my morality, integrity and values How can I be holy in a holocaust? Shame has stripped away my humanity And left me with volumes of despair Shuttered into my wrinkled world* Watching her smile at me from yellowed newsprint And creased photographs in which everyone looks The same, except for her. A haunting spirit which Possesses even the cellulose and ink I clutch In my trembling hands. Trophies of a brilliant life That once snagged on a sharpened shard, began to Unravel amidst Hope and Happiness and Honor I flagellate myself with memories of walks and Trips and fights. No amount of self-mortification Is sufficient to satisfy the demons which torment Me, nor the angels which mourn her. No penitence Can relieve me of the yoke I'm burdened with of Anger, Remorse, and Resentment. No purgatory Sentence can properly prepare me for a pardon Volumes of thought left behind in word and Picture offer little solace to my fractured feelings Left here to reassemble this life alone This daunting task of overwhelming breadth Leaves me with no answers, only the question How can I complete the puzzle with a Piece lost forever?
0
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
michael-j-daisey-jr
JENN
*Buried in the walls of an abandoned house You will find my morality, integrity and values How can I be holy in a holocaust? Shame has stripped away my humanity And left me with volumes of despair Shuttered into my wrinkled world* Watching her smile at me from yellowed newsprint And creased photographs in which everyone looks The same, except for her. A haunting spirit which Possesses even the cellulose and ink I clutch In my trembling hands. Trophies of a brilliant life That once snagged on a sharpened shard, began to Unravel amidst Hope and Happiness and Honor I flagellate myself with memories of walks and Trips and fights. No amount of self-mortification Is sufficient to satisfy the demons which torment Me, nor the angels which mourn her. No penitence Can relieve me of the yoke I'm burdened with of Anger, Remorse, and Resentment. No purgatory Sentence can properly prepare me for a pardon Volumes of thought left behind in word and Picture offer little solace to my fractured feelings Left here to reassemble this life alone This daunting task of overwhelming breadth Leaves me with no answers, only the question How can I complete the puzzle with a Piece lost forever?
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