"afterlives" poems
That night, I stared at the night sky,
Soaked up the stars
Enough to form constellations of my own
And named them after you.
That is the thing about stars,
The more you look
The more you find.
Scars, alike.
Though, I am a novice
In the realm of
Pain and suffering,
I have already understood
The difference between
Papercuts and broken hearts
Chaining souls and holding hands
Flying paper airplanes and shooting darts
Abandonment and negligence.
And for once,
I want to believe in afterlives,
Wishing on shooting stars that are
Confused with fireflies,
If only it was as simple as
The art behind tracing your lips,
Falling asleep to the rhythm of your breath,
Your glinting eyes floating in pools of bliss.
But, we are more than music.
A noise
That beats in our ears;
A scream
That burns our throats.
Of Shattered vintage vases,
Wrecked ships
And sinking boats.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
Why say Greek Gods are fake
and Buddha artificial.
The only thing that is synthetic
is the church on its own.
Using money to help the snobs
than the mother's all alone.
Everybody has different,
interpretations about how this god should be worshipped.
It's still a god, with different names, with different ways of life.
Why hate?
What if one creator is the answer,
but different forms he made.
To reach out to the diversity of the humans that remain, but what if it's not one place after death, or a harsh judgement day.
Just all the afterlives living in harmony,
like the we try to live today.
But instead like Sunis and Shiites same beliefs, but different views,
we argue till the death of thousands,
till the deaths of me and you.
Everyone is looking for one thing: happiness after death.
Much like the perfection you search for before you take your last breath.
The body you always wanted, the grades you try to reach, the soul mate you would **** for just to finally meet.
One goal for all, but many different ways to reach.
So if true in life, like the religions that are taught, might you just take a moment and give a second thought.
Nothing may exist, or something might be true, but in the end it just depends on you.
Stick within the boundaries of your mind, or go ahead and charge through.
It's better to be open in thought of all of this, instead of dying and not getting your last wish.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
The bright ray of the sun
enters through our window
landed directly at your face
unveiling a beauty that captured my eyes
as you slowly wake up from your slumber
I get to catch a glimpse
of what I'll wake up to for the next days of my life
and what my arms will embrace
when darkness falls upon us.
You, my love
a chunk of the endless afterlives I'll take
where my soul wanders the plain
and search even for a hint
of your existence.
My body, like a built in memory foam
that remembers every corners
you placed your flesh onto
and hoping for you to arrive
ready for a home that only craves for you.
Grant me a wish,
Oh God divine and true
for the lover I swear to love,
To have and to hold,
I wish for a road
that in every after life we'll face,
no matter how long it'll take,
how rough it'll be,
she'll find me on that road
waiting
for me to hold her once more
Sep 30, 2022
Sep 30, 2022 at 6:43 AM UTC
What in whoever-the-hell's-up-there name am I doing?
Who am I to question history?
Follow the lines of this directed system,
Make yourself appear kind and gentle enough
To be accepted into afterlives put forth by humans
Who waste their here-lives mauling over what if's-
What if they're right?
But *whoever the hell I have to **** up to*, God, what if they're wrong?
Do I risk my spot among the great
In order to live the life I want to while I still know it's real?
I cannot question the tangibility of this world because the key word here-
Tangible- tangible, I can feel you, I can feel the grass
And I can feel these people and because you are real
I am not alone.
I cannot depend on something that isn't tactile, that isn't tangible
Because I cannot touch what I don't know
I cannot touch what can be speculated as unreal.
But who am I to judge what is real and unreal?
If there is nothing unreal to depend on, no god or supreme beings,
No something that is controlling my very being,
Then why do I chew on the idea that it could be real?
Tell me, what constitutes something real?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Undertaker, claim my lifeless body.
Occupation brings no joyful smiles.
Laughter is your lucre, dark man solemn.
Lay me in your work now, undefiled.
Soil, take me now that I am buried.
Feed me to your starving children, Lover.
Pallid turns my face as blood dries quickly.
Someday, spit me out, unlike the others.
Exodus is relevant. It's unreal.
Afterlives are fake excuses, not deals.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:03 AM UTC
Death is what it seems, the drainer of life, and the birther of new. Through indiscretion and publication, we’ve moulded and formed our ideas on death, to little agreement.
Yet, few realise we die long before our bodies are lost of vitality, and to some of us, we are never born. To live is to think, feel, do, yet how many of us can say we were proactive rather then reactive, shapeless rather than moulded, independant rather than reliant.
Regardless whether we born into it or not, we should never take away the power that’s within us to change, for there is as much beauty in having a metamorphosis from the dark, towards the the light, then to be of a singular purity.
But fear binds us all at some point, it bounds nations, and inadvertently goes back to us in a cycle.
But to overcome fear is to overcome death itself, to truly live once, is to live a thousand afterlives
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
Right across the street
With the bells ringing abruptly
The woman she prays
With her fingers crossed
She kneels down on the floor
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails for the unborn children
And the chaos in their afterlives
Next to the church is a bucket of green paint
Behind whitewashed fences
Of the graveyard
And the sparrows fall into the bucket and
Disguise themselves as harbingers of the
Unknown
The lady walks into the confession room
Of the church which doesn't exist
And wails about the glory of unrequited soldiers
Prays for their worthy souls
And from behind the sparrows
Fly above the chandeliers
Reach her ears
And whisper continually
"You're dead,
We're not harbingers
We're dead too
This church doesn't exist
Those children are now successful
Those soldiers have been rewarded
You're dead."
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Is my nature an appealing surprise?
Or do I walk through dreams in other's afterlives?
You make me wonder
As I float on clouds I see a familiar sign of you.... YOU
When I am here, I feel high, looking into your eyes... YOU.
You are a wonderment to the world.
So lets run and hide
We will sleep under a thousand skies for the rest of our lives
Just me and you
We will be eternal tonight
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
The fading notes of youthful songs
Drift into the distance
Where fields of flowers are cast in shade
And their glowing petals sink and fray
Nothing that comes is worth its space
We are bombs that never go off
And winter comes earlier every year
It will, one day, never stop
Life preserves itself
In the face of mortality
It spins stories of afterlives
It is a genetic defense
Live earnestly and eagerly
There is little else to do
The songs of man will fade
And every art will die along
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Crash upon me like a wave
Then gently pull me out to sea
Seal me in your heart-shaped box
Then be the key that sets me free
Each breath I draw and step I take
Without you makes my spirit ache
And buries me in floorboard creaks
To run as shivers down the spine
Black widow webs and Snow White fiends
Are all that slithers through my mind
In sunlit shadows I reside
Without you by my other side
Where afterlives of former self
Became the current's flow unbound
The scent of harmonies in bloom
The taste of spring's delicious sound
The powers that I just can't bare
Without you there for me to share
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
I do not believe in a God,
I do not believe that any specific religion has all the answers,
rather,
I believe that people will always come up with scenarios and situations,
that give a potential reason for life.
I do not believe there is a world waiting for me when I die,
whether it be a kingdom in the clouds,
or endless lakes of fire.
I do not believe that if there were a God,
he would work in "mysterious" ways.
I believe that we are here for no specific purpose,
and rather than live our lives according to books that were written
hundreds of years ago,
we should understand that life is exactly what we, as the human race,
make it to be.
I truly believe that we as a race should stop believing in afterlives that other people have placed in our minds,
and come to realize that if there truly is an afterlife,
not one man or woman,
would ever be able to fathom it.
I believe that we should live life as one,
and worry about the rest,
if and when it comes to be.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
Howling to the werewolf moon
The only light I've shed
Upon my corpse bride's runaway
And zombies that I've fled
Running from vampiric tongues
That licked their lips and said
Forget me not the wicked witches'
Poisons that you've bled
Or Frankenstein creations
Of the afterlives you've led
And cemeteries searching for
A place to rest your head
Dressed in black the pallbearers
Of caskets that you dread
All manner of these elegies
You wrote when you were dead
Have ever been the only hands
To tuck you into bed
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.
They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.
“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.
I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.
Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.
That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??
The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 2:28 PM UTC
to think a thought, to think of me, is nothing I see fit to do.
my self and I, are not to be seen, not heard, but known as Me.
before I believed, in not believing in, I believed my beliefs were blind.
so now at all, if I believe,
I think I know there is none to find.
believe in the right,
believe in the wrong,
it matters not to the world.
the world has no feeling,
no emotion for you.
not one thing will matter,
not one thing you do.
so if when you do, these things that you do,
you think a thought just as I,
believe in more that just your beliefs,
these things matters not, if the life when we die.
I know not of afterlives,
I know nothing of a being, supreme.
I know I am self, and I am nothing,
in the eyes of the world, a burden.
where I will go, and be, when I die,
has nothing to do with me,
has nothing to do with the world which we house,
and nothing to do with what I believe.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Days worsen
as men leap onto me
bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up on in their
afterlives.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 2:23 AM UTC
I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.
They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.
“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dish-towel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that and I know why.
I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.
Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their after-lives.
That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their death is cruel or sudden but I'm an adolescent - I'm in school - what can I do??
The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW! You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break-up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 7:06 AM UTC