"cemetary" poems
12/24/2013
Sitting at the bar.
A man approached me with the line, "you have beautiful eyes."
A simple *** object he made my eyes
a device to leverage me into bed.
How cute.
I said Look into my eyes.
Tell me do you see hues of green and the most beautiful brown bestowed upon my body?
I call them Hazel.
as if they had a name for human pieces of flesh filled with blood.
Filled with the anger, Filled with rage, and Filled with envy which accompany sorrow.
But search further through my furrowed brow and you'll find no regrets even in the deepest depths of my iris and its solitude.
These eyes have seen themselves in the mirror.
Faced with a ***** reflection but don't blame the fragile glass surface with smudges and stains until it shatters.
You can't clean Hazel's ***** soul.
judgmental stares.
***** eyes. **** eyes.
Eyes that have been buried in armpits and stared deep into an *******
Relentlessly unforgiving in his shallow stares,
Hazel was once so pure.
Eyes with a spark ready to ignite flames of fun now
Burnt to a **** crisp.
But you,
You with your drink in hand,
trying to pick up a trick for a quick.
You fueled the fire.
You burned down the bridge and led Hazel to walk off the cliff.
You killed my eyes.
My beautiful beautiful dead dead eyes.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
Sea breeze carrying scents
From foreign fields.
Blossoming sympathies reaching
Out over the fences of Lafayette
Cemetary.
Forest breath rustling leaves with
Faint animal musk and the
Serenity of centuries.
Still nothing smells quite like a
Young woman; bare feet and towel
Draped- fresh from
Shower
Passing.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Magpies in the
cemetary;
I sit and remember
beneath the pines.
How cold the world
seems at times.
You were always
there.
Magpies in the cemetary --
the dogwood branches bare,
skeleton trees shrouded
by winter's chill.
I sit and remember.
Mother, father...
I miss you so.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 8:58 AM UTC
These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide
These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters
If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary
Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells
Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
*Hey i saw you today at The Mortuary.
You looked sad. Was she your mother, the brunette middle-aged woman who was crying all the time? When i saw you i felt something. I really liked you.
Your dark straight hair. Your pale face.
You're such a handsome young man.
Too bad, huh?*
I heard you died of some terrible gunshot wounds.
I died two weeks ago. My boyfriend ***** me and then buried me somewhere in the forest. God. I loved him so much. Didn't know ****** was something he could have been capable of doing.*
*They buried me in The Pinehill Woodstraw Cemetary yesterday.
I think they're going to bury you here as well. Is it today? Oh yeah my name is Halley Maryanne Byrne. I am buried next to my grandparents. Just find the Grey Gravestone with two angels on it. I like my gravestone. It's beautiful. My parents chose the best for me.*
*Okay i'll be waiting for you here.
Let's hope they're not going to bury you too far from me. I really need to talk with you and get to know you better.
See you at your funeral! I'll be there.
Oh i can't wait.*
P.S. Nice Tux!
Your new friend, Halley.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:59 AM UTC
They say to treat my body like a temple,
But I don't believe in a God.
There are cracks in the spaces
where love should be,
and weeds in the place
of flowers.
The glue holding the bandages in place
have worn off,
and the stitches
have torn.
I've learnt through
Tough times,
surrounded by an ocean
of my own tears,
that light
shines even in a cemetary,
and that's what I am -
Half sunshine,
half grave,
the embodiment of
Persephone.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined I was Indiana Jones.
I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night.
I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden.
I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit never turned red.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out suckers.
I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway.
I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the wooden mantle.
I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions.
I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard.
I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night.
I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather lies next to my grandmother,
and my father next to her.
I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom
where she prays every night
I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching.
I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle.
I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
When i was 7, we still lived in Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland. There was this old cemetary that every kid in the neighbourhood was afraid of. Being terribly rebellious i spent much time playing hide and seek there with my brothers. I remember coming across an old aging gravestone with an angel standing next to it. I thought to myself 'i want two angels to guard me when i die'. And all of a sudden the fog came down covering my sight and for a moment i thought i had lost my brothers. It was the scariest moment of my life. Suddenly i felt a cold hand resting on my left shoulder. I turned around... To my surprise... There was my father, smiling at me vaguely. He found me.
'No boy your age should be wandering alone in a cemetary' he said.
I took his hand and kissed it gently, held him so tight. He bent down to kiss me back. Then we walked among the gravestones in silence, with the fog swirling round us like ghosts. I was holding his hand tight all the way back home. I was thinking, so was he. But i knew we knew what the other was thinking.
My father...
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:39 AM UTC
Where do I find a poem?
In the space of a blink,
Between heartbeats,
When idle or moving,
With family and friends,
In a cemetary,
At school,
On a beach,
On-line,
On a bench, sitting beside me.
In the four seasons,
Beneath the blue, black and starry canopy,
In the wild, sapian or worldly,
In the arts and prophets,
Crawling on the floor,
When I'm cooking;
And, when I'm not looking,
A poem will find me.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
When I think of you
I see nothing but putrid filth
Your heart is blacker than the darkest night
And your soul-substitute is filled with pus
Filthy foulness oozing from wounds
Suppurating with germs and graveyard worms
Christ Jesu I beg on my bony knees
In the deserted cemetary of my heart
That He will make you burn in Hell
Slowly inserting blazing steel knives in your eyes
While evil demons rip your guts out
And eat your colon before your living eyes .
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
I rode by a Cemetary today
A very old one
I had never seen before
The headstones...people here
Long before me
Lay there resting
Did they know anyone
Who rest there with them?
Very likely
Did they love anyone
Who rest there with them?
Even more likely
It made me incredibly emotional
To know how much past loves
Were resting there
It made me happy to think love existed
But it made me sad that it also ended
(Sometimes I think too much)
Nov 27, 2023
Nov 27, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
I passed the new york in your eyes notriously
before ever really speaking the language that they shrieked
the rigourus dimensions
the pale fingers speak
Im crisp
as the apple giving birth to her death
send your signals to me
fly seas
dance in breeze
remember the ****** when in her blackened tongue she speaks
fragility giving birth to her gritty skeletons
came to me one night and begged me to breathe
poetically told me it was me the universe seeks
not who they said I was
but to shed the hiding technique
the ill and sly words in my tongue raging to leak
the ordained freak and the memories
laying in the back of my mind somewhere,
those
those real antiques
Im a princess in the world of words itself
and the universe is my boutique
I brush the pink smile upon my cheek
and I grab what I want with the strength of ease
to my side I kick those ordinary bullies
and now Im watching them burn in the lowest average of these cities
I let my hair grow
wear bright colors
and dance the dance of the gipsies
I take life back further than the fifties
then further then the thirties
I run to the cemetary and mingle with that one zombie
the one who I let go of
and let him explain to me the details of my hidden worries
he tells me to let them go
I shoot the fatigued oldness in the heart with the spine of my arrow
I make loves to all my shadows
I hallow in my very mellow
state of mind
my intrinsic phsyco
my cronic rainbow
I dont need your superfiality
because as human I have won the mental lotto
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
I have always seen the world on a.... tilt.
A little off kilter, as if spilt.
Where some see a dozen rose's glory before they wilt
I see a lover's unforgiven guilt.
They may see a cemetary sad and forlorn.
I see a peacefulness that I mourn.
Some look upon the homeless with scorn.
I can see their potential unborn.
Many folks see the city as a gilded flower.
All I can see is smog and rush hours.
Where some cower from the thundershower.
I stand within it, feeling power.
For folks who say they always get the raw deals.
I see it they never learned to yield
Some women want their man to be made of steel.
I love my man, as he is, because he kneels.
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
Today I thought of how
closely my hands resemble my grandmother’s,
and of how hers looked in the coffin.
At the funeral,
I was asked to take pictures for my uncle,
and I’m not going to say that it was my proudest moment
to witness the side-eye glances of black-clad neighbors
and still have to hear the click and see the flash
to forever-remember the floral arrangements
and the way my grandmother’s hands looked.
Why my uncle couldn’t operate
a disposable camera himself
was something I didn’t ask, and so
for hours I perched on ripped heels in a cemetary
clicking and flashing and thinking that
the obituary should have contained the footnote
that cemetaries are grass and pliable earth
so it’s best not to wear heels,
lest you sink in,
and join the best of them.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:30 AM UTC
What's fair the empty playground I'm found deserted again
no bucket or plastic shovel to build my imaginary castle by the sea
just to watch it crumble into the winter abyss that haunts me,
my everything is hidden there,
all my darkest dreams,
how fleeting they seem to me now in this moment between a yawn and a blink.
Now to count the seconds down, like hourglass grains before they're blasted into infinitum,
ad nauseum,
the shortest route to my disgusted laughter brought by iron works and silent chatter, lifted lights to gild the gladdener
Once again I've found myself saying
once again,
how long until I get to stop counting these seconds till my end.
Another chance, a silly whim, a wresting of my hope from within for others, see the colors, just to dash it upon the cemetary.
My homestead weeps, the wry touched curls of fois de gras coil
up the supports licking flames and feathers, whips and tethers, carry me through this fever dream, sniffling, sailing.
I cannot, I could, I can, I won't, I wouldn't, I should, be who would I be then?
The thought's of thoughts thinking of theories thunk to breathe that opalescent shimmer off obsidian winter bunkers built to break all meaning peaking from beneath the umbra.
Why is it so hard to just be at peace?
I guess nothing worth doing is ever easy.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 12:33 PM UTC
i just signed ya death certificate
cause the angel of death descended
a death sentence was inscripted in the scroll i was given
i came to bury anybody in the rap cemetary
while im the one who wrote the obituary
no wakes cause the body cant be presented
come to ya funeral in attendance
im the one who was spitting
i bring the bodybags before the killing
to zip em up in em
after the battle finished
cause yall battling a menace
im the seed of dennis
but im not kidding
evrybdy a victim
this is only genesis
the beginning
its vicious more in the ending
final decision
is death
cause thesee bars is an hex
these spells at my request
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Its been almost a year
and I still can’t forget the way it felt like a graveyard to kiss you
I’m still trying to get the taste of dirt and formaldehyde off of my tongue
and according to a recent poll taken by me
I miss you more than the legal limit
so tonight I’m calling the police in hopes they will arrest me
another broken heart taken off the streets
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
To feel good
I must indulge;
To be good
I must abstain.
Like cemetary paths,
Everything is circular
And everlasting.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
winded and chilled.
did your feathers get ruffled
as you flew in from the storm?
molting on my carpet
take a bath, birdy.
cleanse those wings
and wash your bony knees.
I don't want to see those nasty bruises
so cover your skin
and fly away again.
let me see those eyes, birdy.
have you a cold or
did the bitter cold
leave you blind?
better for you,
to see not with eyes but with frail
birdy fingers.
don't hate your world, birdy.
you're no more
no less
than any other ******
who shoves past you in the supermarket.
we all came out of a filthy ******* ******
so climb off your high horse
and get in line.
we're all just waiting around
til someone digs us hole
or lights us on fire.
so birdy,
if you can help it,
don't be a *******
out you go,
into the cold.
smile birdy,
be glad for the sun in the mornings.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
the sorrow in the walk
is what gives it away
They walk to the military graveyard
to remember to respect
walk away
and thank God they are still alive
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
The darkness, as well as the drying roses
The quiet and sad moaning,
of people and lost souls
Fresh graveyard dirt and the fading scent of lilies.
Salty tears, as they cascade down faces
The heart aches and throbs.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
did you become a monster trying to be like me
love found,
our bitter catastrophe
I announce in small tongues
because I am far past shy
I dwell below the medium of discreet
I fell for that
that
which will never fall for me
secret bliss shared in corners of my mind
to be gazed upon by wolves
devoured in the late night sky
I travel with your mind in my mind
I do understand none of this will ever
be redefined
but I carry you within me regardless
of the bad times
touch the ill pale stricken love side
dive in midnight incubus pools
we lived in the most blackened of times
we drank what was not
but to me, the most red of wine
I sink into the thought of you
you do not love me anymore
I was torn behind you
shredded like pieces of cloth
buried deep into the cemetary in your soul
lost that woman who believed in romance and goth
I smear the dirt from against my cheek
you should see the sadness within me
the ****** blood tangent
the ****** of naked torture
I cover my privates
there is nothing left to hide
prisoners try to escape
I dwell here, numb with the thought of you
my hands trail behind me
Im going to die
Im going to die right here
admitting this beneath me
tonight
a few hours
man
haunted
kissed
shoulders
hair
trailing
age
there is something hidden between the refined
lips of a staggered feline
tramped like irony against my soul
a birthmark
a cure
hurt
hurt
no escaping
trapped
whole
the understanding
the love that gives out a sigh of death
a sigh of disowning
a sigh of painful living
endured upon me like knives
punching
peircing
reminding
every single drought stricken day
I lay upon my pillow gently
oh yes
I give into all this pain
what else can I do with my small hands that were left
wrinkled and have become prune from living in your rain
what has become of the sickness
the splattered guts and the vain
suffer
detachment
drunk
comfort
drowning
smile nervously
smile hesitantly
smile
remorse
beg
hurt
how can I ever come to play
simply spread my meaning
simply tell the tale of where my soul went when you had gone astray
packed your bags and got on the closest highway
with the word
gay
dripping out the side of my brain
hands curved next to my cheek
fingers twisted
heat overwhelming
panting
screaming
I have learned you
stitched lips
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
my hands believed in you
satisfied by little to none
I could have gave them to anyone
little white pedals laying stagnant on each fingertip
revelations of the flowers you helped blossom in my impotent heart
how can I explain something provoking veins inside the blood of my emotions
when I didnt even know blood flowed through anything but my physical body
a cemetary of memories lie abyss somewhere inside of me
like the joyfull living praised when there but never appreciated enough
until souls bid farewell
the hour of separtion came to me as something that was dream like
something that couldnt be real
a few days pass almost placidly flowing over my being
and then it comes
expected lament,
this piece of land inside me is not vast
containing many souls some meaningless and some worthy
rather it is appressed and compact with little space
for the memories at rest
intertwined helping me remember together
in yearning harmony
the grass is so green over every grave
the sun never sets
but the flowers have disappeared
yes
the flowers they are
dead
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 2:39 PM UTC