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Sara Kellie May 2018
And in the silence that's often deafening, I hear my heart that still beats.
Reminding me of more pain to come, disguised as truths we are their lies.
After all these years there's no surprise.
Whispered softly into your ears, we are the makers of salty tears.
One day your heart, cold, blue and torn will cease to beat, when death is born.
Life's light will fade for one last time, up through the clouds your soul will climb.
A breeze from the graveyard whispers death but that's ok, I hold its hand.
A smile in the dark I understand, the effort you've shown, this was all planned.
Congratulations to you, my life is through.
Tired, so tired. Wondering if I have the right number. Waiting for it to be called.
Day Jan 8
Will you love me when I'm dead and gone?
Request you play my favorite song,
and listen closely to the words.
Please,
let this fading soul be heard.
Ray Dunn Apr 16
distance between our graves
spacious and airy—
leave our kids to sing
“vivere volumus permanere”
This is the best I could do w Latin I tried my best to translate it but I’m not the best with Latin so it’s a very confusing mix of google translate and my infintinitly small knowledge of a very dead language (btw the title is the translation)
Holly M Aug 2018
You are not demure.
Your vocabulary is not pure.
But baby, I'd just like to say
That I wouldn't have it
Any other way.

They look at you and say,
"Pretty girl, but I wish
Her **** were as big
As her mouth is."
But I don't.

I love the way
You wear your hair,
Like you just don't care,
Like you are a lion,
And this is your mane.
I love the way
Your eyes are sea blue
And you haven't got a clue
How these little details
Drive me insane.

They look at you and say,
"Pretty girl, but I wish
She took more pride
So she looked as good outside
As she does on the inside.
Maybe if she took her head
Out of that book, then
Her neck wouldn't be so bent.
Then she'd look heaven-sent."
But I don't.

Don't get me wrong-
I don't love everything about you.
You laugh too loud and too shrill,
You argue even when the point is nil.
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Sometimes your jokes are out of place.
You're regular hurricane of a girl,
But sweetheart, I love severe weather.

So honey, if
What they want is a
Pretty girl
To live in a pretty world,
Hair in a messy (in a cute way) bun,
Skin kissed by the sun,
Coke bottle figure
Who's never pulled the trigger,
Cherry lipsmack kiss
Only knows of bliss,
Then so be it.

They can keep
All of the pretty girls
Living in pretty worlds
Who have given up their goals
And sold their souls,
Because I don't want any part.
Love, it's always been you
I've wanted from the start.
i bleed poetry Aug 2018
I am my own garden
Wildflowers grow on me

But he came along,
He didn't dig holes but graves
Then you came along,
You didn't plant a single kind but plenty

I let you water my plants
But as they begin to sprout
You drowned and burried them
Under the graves he made

I am my own garden and
I will start digging holes

I am my own garden and
I will start planting seeds

I am my own garden and
I will not expect anyone
to water my flowers for me
Alaina Moore Mar 2013
Plagiarism of worthless ideals,
That you so ignorantly hold high.
Shaking in amazement,
How can you call your self alive?

Totalitarian, lethargic lifestyle.
Ignominious displays of disaffection.
Constant contradictions;
Out of your mind.

Caught up in the clouds,
Cognition of mania and level debauched.
Up to high to realize, an “open mind” with locked doors.
Maslow, Skinner, and Darwin alike, turn in their graves,
Over your lack of evolution.
Simone13 Aug 2018
down the Valley
where the river flows
flocks of graves
swarmed with crows

ashes to ashes
turn dust to dust
where their metals lei
and turned to rust

stenches of blood
screams and decay
where wasted sheds
are left astray

down the Valley
where the river flows
are plumps of graves
where flowers grow
Dead Rose One Mar 2015
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set**

orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
                                               spring"

the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
                    too much insufferable

having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit ****, u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
                                         concurrently


there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****,
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
                                 failed

of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
                    men

maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted

where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
                                             immediacy

heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
                                                    smothered life

but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a *******
                       mirror

there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
ryn Mar 2015
Blue is the boulder overlooking the bay
Loosely pocked by weather-worn stains
Unwavering guardian of all that lay
Enigmatic yet silently screaming its pains

Blue is the reflection dancing playfully
Laid generously by the twilight moon
Upon the vast canvas of the darkened sea
Elated ripples readily accepting such a boon

Blue is the halo encircling the moon
Lavish circlet gifted by the sun
Unnoticed by eyes that slumbered too soon
Evading the sands of time that run

Blue is the silhouette of a lone sailboat
Lurching and bobbing by will of the waves
Unknowingly catching the zephyrs that float
Eluding the fingers from watery graves

Blue is the man; perched upon the boulder
Lapping up the stars mirrored upon the sea
Usurped heart of his had never sung drearier
Ensnared by woeful wonderment...
                                           *
*that man is me...
Civilized life is rigged, O land-dwellers!
With landmines hidden
in trails of Society's doctrine.
'Too often is it stepped on,
Too often does it explode.'
Blowing constitutions to smithereens.
Where you then rummage within your nucleus
to piece together your scattered jigsaw,
Misplacing your natural elements,
Overcasting your ability to side with beauteous aspects in simplicity—
Of those ethereal-resplendent butterflies.
Disillusioned on land thus is you(the complex you).

Let go—
Rise above your materialistic graves—
Walk on air!
My kindred wisps
Walk on air!
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Robin Lemmen Nov 2018
You leave pavements ******
And graves dug but without bodies
Learning tricks of manipulation
You know how to wrap us around
The small of your finger
With bloodshot eyes and a mouth
Full of sweetened poison
You kiss girls and leave them hungry
Foolishly hoping that your touch
Just might heal them
You leave pavements cracked
So we are all left skipping  
Hoping to save your back
Isn't love unkindly blind?
Maaz Dec 2018
Stand on graves and cast out the helpless.
They arrive in waves to the illusion of hope.
A 'caravan' of people,
All begging for freedom,
But fear not,
They shall be murdered
for they are evil.

How can they expect asylum, safety & security,
from a land built on death?
Where those in power face no scrutiny.
Where an orange haired buffoon can thrive & prosper,
But mothers & fathers cannot afford a doctor.

Yet still these people come here seeking a better life and
how dare they do?
With hands calloused from hard work,
hearts filled with grief,
spirits filled with belief;
Don’t they know?

This is a land built out of the flesh of martyrs,
On a charter that helps oppress its own population,
A country that thrives off devastation.
A sociopathic society
Bison Feb 2016
All that you are not
All those scars you've got
Will lead you to the end
Where I've been watching the world sleep again

Breathe it in
Forget our sin
Forget our spoken names
We journey to that sacred place

I've always been lost
A silhouette of hopeless indifference
I've always been lost
A burning darkness in the distance

You are a silver dream of mine
My only reason that seems to bind
Your golden grace bestowed on me
Leads me to a sudden peace

Awash in starry ocean waves
We've chosen our graves
Death is awaiting a single thread
A pale golden hair from atop your head

Breathe it in
Forget our sin
Forget our spoken names
We journey to that sacred place

I've always been lost
A silhouette of hopeless indifference
I've always been lost
A burning darkness in the distance

I've always been lost
A silhouette of hopeless indifference
I've always been lost
A burning darkness in the distance
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