"mortuaries" poems - Hello Poetry

YOU NEVER WANTED TO BE A GARDENER I can feel the weeds poking through the mulch in my stomach. stop plucking them out- they just grow back louder. yknow, for a gardener, you spent a lot of time in mortuaries. I just didn't realise I had one in my chest I didnt realise you'd notice didnt realise you'd try to pull the weeds out of that too, and plant daisies in the beds instead. Did you know daisies are weeds? yknow, for a gardener, you were never very good. But I still let you into my house to water my arteries. every single time we kissed I left with a mouth full of flowers; you left with a mouth full of mud. It's not your fault you couldn't keep up with the gardening. you tried everything to get rid of those ******** Didn't your mother ever tell you not to kiss a girl who tastes like weedkiller? They tell me you gave up gardening - But I know you still keep a daisy pressed in your bible.

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Jun 22, 2015

Jun 22, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC

sayyykirsty

YOU NEVER WANTED TO BE A GARDENER

YOU NEVER WANTED TO BE A GARDENER I can feel the weeds poking through the mulch in my stomach. stop plucking them out- they just grow back louder. yknow, for a gardener, you spent a lot of time in mortuaries. I just didn't realise I had one in my chest I didnt realise you'd notice didnt realise you'd try to pull the weeds out of that too, and plant daisies in the beds instead. Did you know daisies are weeds? yknow, for a gardener, you were never very good. But I still let you into my house to water my arteries. every single time we kissed I left with a mouth full of flowers; you left with a mouth full of mud. It's not your fault you couldn't keep up with the gardening. you tried everything to get rid of those ******** Didn't your mother ever tell you not to kiss a girl who tastes like weedkiller? They tell me you gave up gardening - But I know you still keep a daisy pressed in your bible.

33

Content in a cornered part of the far reaches of France Where the gypsies naked prance and hastily dance Stars shine down on the groups of merry peasants Who talk love tell and pluck soon to be dead pheasants Here the children tell of monsters mixed to death with lore Milk pours from every cow and food grows more and more Rocks forget themselves underneath a bubbling river bed No one cries for here no one is beckoned to the river of the dead Illusions fortify their eyes and their beating red hearts Cars are parked for the horses as their only means to start On adventures to moon lit mortuaries candle lit dinner parties Dancing with ghosts sporting their finest being quite flirty I envisioned myself beneath the elm tree reading and writing Listening to no sounds of husband and wife fighting Some may call this place eden heaven or even impossible But I see it as a world hopeful to soon be chronicled

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Jul 12, 2011

Jul 12, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC

ashby-brown

Soon To Be

Content in a cornered part of the far reaches of France Where the gypsies naked prance and hastily dance Stars shine down on the groups of merry peasants Who talk love tell and pluck soon to be dead pheasants Here the children tell of monsters mixed to death with lore Milk pours from every cow and food grows more and more Rocks forget themselves underneath a bubbling river bed No one cries for here no one is beckoned to the river of the dead Illusions fortify their eyes and their beating red hearts Cars are parked for the horses as their only means to start On adventures to moon lit mortuaries candle lit dinner parties Dancing with ghosts sporting their finest being quite flirty I envisioned myself beneath the elm tree reading and writing Listening to no sounds of husband and wife fighting Some may call this place eden heaven or even impossible But I see it as a world hopeful to soon be chronicled

16

ashtrays, mugs and moments: rattle within, outside their place. our brittle, needy bones support head, appetite-shorn body: Bouldering. Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges churning-over water, tide. High-regard neighbor’s children re- move plastic decorations while that grandpa hangs-- alive, stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us with body-shag coats to- doors, somedays-ies and happenstance below mortuaries, toe- tags, dangling shoe-string, draping clothes'- line our spindly, warrowed hallways between blankets, sweaty feelers lie, their harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/ palms aloft and hopeful. a glint, a chance, a something. wicker furniture, lace. a bed, a "yes." Please, a you.

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Jan 2, 2012

Jan 2, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC

sansara-justinovich

Moving

ashtrays, mugs and moments: rattle within, outside their place. our brittle, needy bones support head, appetite-shorn body: Bouldering. Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges churning-over water, tide. High-regard neighbor’s children re- move plastic decorations while that grandpa hangs-- alive, stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us with body-shag coats to- doors, somedays-ies and happenstance below mortuaries, toe- tags, dangling shoe-string, draping clothes'- line our spindly, warrowed hallways between blankets, sweaty feelers lie, their harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/ palms aloft and hopeful. a glint, a chance, a something. wicker furniture, lace. a bed, a "yes." Please, a you.

26

When my Juliet calls, and my soul is weary. I briefly fold, and long to follow that path I can't attempt. Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and let our embrace shake the stars, But the will to live wins over a world without a Capulet It's the hardest decision that I'm never going to get, because the path of least resistance is the path I can't accept. It's because my life is never ready. The poison's on her lips already. Hands are shaking, Blade is steady. Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and gift to me this path of sweet regret. Romeo is cold and weary, Oblivion is singing cheery Songs for what he longs for and the night; and the blade shines alight with blood so cold and wet.

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Jun 26, 2015

Jun 26, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC

ian-steele

Montague Mortuaries

When my Juliet calls, and my soul is weary. I briefly fold, and long to follow that path I can't attempt. Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and let our embrace shake the stars, But the will to live wins over a world without a Capulet It's the hardest decision that I'm never going to get, because the path of least resistance is the path I can't accept. It's because my life is never ready. The poison's on her lips already. Hands are shaking, Blade is steady. Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and gift to me this path of sweet regret. Romeo is cold and weary, Oblivion is singing cheery Songs for what he longs for and the night; and the blade shines alight with blood so cold and wet.

20

The hospitals full The ambulances all gone My heart empty My trust gone The hospitals full The ambulances all gone The doctors and nurses maxed out Can life still go on? The hospitals full The ambulances all gone The morgues and mortuaries over-spilling In the City of Angels and lost souls The hospitals full The ambulances all gone I wear two masks, a smile and one of cloth Life must go on The hospitals full The ambulances all gone As ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three Happy new year? In the City of Angels and lost souls The hospitals are full The ambulances all gone as we ring in a "new" year and life must go on The hospitals remain full The ambulances still gone as one, two, three, four, five, six friend and family we bury as living death still stalks on

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Dec 31, 2020

Dec 31, 2020 at 10:58 PM UTC

thekristinwest

In the City of Angels and Lost Souls

The hospitals full The ambulances all gone My heart empty My trust gone The hospitals full The ambulances all gone The doctors and nurses maxed out Can life still go on? The hospitals full The ambulances all gone The morgues and mortuaries over-spilling In the City of Angels and lost souls The hospitals full The ambulances all gone I wear two masks, a smile and one of cloth Life must go on The hospitals full The ambulances all gone As ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three Happy new year? In the City of Angels and lost souls The hospitals are full The ambulances all gone as we ring in a "new" year and life must go on The hospitals remain full The ambulances still gone as one, two, three, four, five, six friend and family we bury as living death still stalks on

28

Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words... Understanding that the true love is a scarification..... For being or not being.... True love inundating the conundrum Like that sacred river of longing, Sometimes flowing swiftly through landscapes Astounding the lurid heart..... The sound of silence passing... Passions galvanizing the wounds and painful mares for enduring... Trying to heal the injury... Flying gulls beneath the lower bow, touching the blue waters of the ocean..... Waves and sad memories dancing on the golden sand.... Shying away from the horizon line.... Vessels screaming and shouting their hearts out.... Swimming across the ocean of red burning coals, Searching for that golden threshold..... The colors spectrum giving the necessary senses to the lights of absolution, When their senses turn inward..... Gazing the mountain from the windowpane... From the indoor side of that rain-rinsed windowpane..... Sitting on that mountain and gazing at the stars.... Birds gliding across, like rainbow rising, spreading their wings, streaming.. Those birds flying in a variety of ways, ranging from gliding to soaring to flapping.... The crystalline steeping slopes of the mountain multi faces.... Being decorated with climbing ropes, heavenly as seen from above.... And the crystalline waters, steeping cliffs, hidden lakes and lush forests... A sign of a divine love... Understanding that love is like the Earth and the gravity, Inseparable..... Groans and moans leading to mortuaries.... Life being like walking in the middle of the park, Embracing the crouch air, Or embracing change by resisting the defensive crouch..... And going deep into the human system, feeling like being born again.... The smile on face painting an episode of the past, Engraving our hearts with golden debris, Like a golden pyramid, contracting pyramid..... Generating our consciousness and chasing away insanity.... Sounds of silence passing... Being like a blue ocean...

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Oct 8, 2011

Oct 8, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC

marieta-maglas

I’m your blue ocean

Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words... Understanding that the true love is a scarification..... For being or not being.... True love inundating the conundrum Like that sacred river of longing, Sometimes flowing swiftly through landscapes Astounding the lurid heart..... The sound of silence passing... Passions galvanizing the wounds and painful mares for enduring... Trying to heal the injury... Flying gulls beneath the lower bow, touching the blue waters of the ocean..... Waves and sad memories dancing on the golden sand.... Shying away from the horizon line.... Vessels screaming and shouting their hearts out.... Swimming across the ocean of red burning coals, Searching for that golden threshold..... The colors spectrum giving the necessary senses to the lights of absolution, When their senses turn inward..... Gazing the mountain from the windowpane... From the indoor side of that rain-rinsed windowpane..... Sitting on that mountain and gazing at the stars.... Birds gliding across, like rainbow rising, spreading their wings, streaming.. Those birds flying in a variety of ways, ranging from gliding to soaring to flapping.... The crystalline steeping slopes of the mountain multi faces.... Being decorated with climbing ropes, heavenly as seen from above.... And the crystalline waters, steeping cliffs, hidden lakes and lush forests... A sign of a divine love... Understanding that love is like the Earth and the gravity, Inseparable..... Groans and moans leading to mortuaries.... Life being like walking in the middle of the park, Embracing the crouch air, Or embracing change by resisting the defensive crouch..... And going deep into the human system, feeling like being born again.... The smile on face painting an episode of the past, Engraving our hearts with golden debris, Like a golden pyramid, contracting pyramid..... Generating our consciousness and chasing away insanity.... Sounds of silence passing... Being like a blue ocean...

40

memories. forgotten freedom. caught insomnia in a mausoleum, fighting nausea. am i doin well? drool against my will until the light floods in. sunday tunnel vision. perfect colorblind. ill-prepared and scared. falling way too high. don't change the subject. my stomachs upset. burning lovesick. stick together eye to eye. stitch letters together into dated wisdom. winds of change approaching, much too proud to listen. mortgage mortuaries, buried in my debt. have you ever slept? i dreamt a dream then i forgot.

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Jul 26, 2014

Jul 26, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC

david-jm

Anticlimactic

memories. forgotten freedom. caught insomnia in a mausoleum, fighting nausea. am i doin well? drool against my will until the light floods in. sunday tunnel vision. perfect colorblind. ill-prepared and scared. falling way too high. don't change the subject. my stomachs upset. burning lovesick. stick together eye to eye. stitch letters together into dated wisdom. winds of change approaching, much too proud to listen. mortgage mortuaries, buried in my debt. have you ever slept? i dreamt a dream then i forgot.

24

I have often thought of myself as an angel of death. Destruction meekly keeps step with my pacing vigil, and blooms wherever I might rest. In truth I blindly seek it out Guided by a waning star, groping in the blackness. to find at the precipice of stumbling disaster, An observatory, Where a great expanse of purpose can be viewed. A veil is lifted, And we are swaddled and lulled into reform. As dust mingles with contrasting shadow, So do we mingle in an ethereal realm. Awaiting an equinox, Or celestial alignment, Of the body and the soul. Seeking a corner of the universe, Where we might meditate on our grief. You looked saintly, With your head tilting downwards, Like Madonna in Pietà. At peace, To greet your heavenly messengers, Of jovial cherubs with golden horns Swirling in their circling dance. Trumpets lift the fluttering chorus. As they lead you by the hand. Your youngest son, In a brief visit, Sat beside you in your aphasic reverie, As he left he said, 'Bye bye mom', For the very last time. Even pushing fifty, He is still your baby boy. The afternoon of your departure, with your hollow vessel in it's room. We discussed mortuaries and memorials, And when to disrupt the family, (In the middle of their labor day barbecues), With the news. While the neighbors are raffling their joys, In their respective complexes, This house, At the end of the lane, Floats disjointed from the material world, and the journey through the infinite vacuum, Without tethers, To time and space. Is debasing to say the least. Dissolving expectations and resolving the ego, As we dress your body in your favorite colors.

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC

brennan-crawford

For Helen pt.2

I have often thought of myself as an angel of death. Destruction meekly keeps step with my pacing vigil, and blooms wherever I might rest. In truth I blindly seek it out Guided by a waning star, groping in the blackness. to find at the precipice of stumbling disaster, An observatory, Where a great expanse of purpose can be viewed. A veil is lifted, And we are swaddled and lulled into reform. As dust mingles with contrasting shadow, So do we mingle in an ethereal realm. Awaiting an equinox, Or celestial alignment, Of the body and the soul. Seeking a corner of the universe, Where we might meditate on our grief. You looked saintly, With your head tilting downwards, Like Madonna in Pietà. At peace, To greet your heavenly messengers, Of jovial cherubs with golden horns Swirling in their circling dance. Trumpets lift the fluttering chorus. As they lead you by the hand. Your youngest son, In a brief visit, Sat beside you in your aphasic reverie, As he left he said, 'Bye bye mom', For the very last time. Even pushing fifty, He is still your baby boy. The afternoon of your departure, with your hollow vessel in it's room. We discussed mortuaries and memorials, And when to disrupt the family, (In the middle of their labor day barbecues), With the news. While the neighbors are raffling their joys, In their respective complexes, This house, At the end of the lane, Floats disjointed from the material world, and the journey through the infinite vacuum, Without tethers, To time and space. Is debasing to say the least. Dissolving expectations and resolving the ego, As we dress your body in your favorite colors.

52

I think I'm gonna buy myself a bomb to destroy this blasé mirage, with a mortuaries brush and a bullet I'll paint myself in blood to camouflage the scars of belief etched upon my scowling, juvenile face a brainwashed idiocratic believer following the languishing entity far up in space - conscience ridden with bruises and hickies flesh burns, prickles and stings I'm merely a pawn, deluded with disdain, one of thy lord's pathetic playthings I don't need no one, anyone, I'm the sole writer of my fate the world will crumble 'neath my feet as the Angels weep at it's sorry state I'll **** the blood from life's bare, fresh-skinned neck piercing jugulars, cavorting with insanity pulling continuous jokers from within my deck and then you know what I'll do next? As I push myself to the crowd's fore? I'll active the dynamite strapped to my chest and blow my writhing guts all over the floor - Oh I think I'm gonna buy myself a bomb, hide the detonator in the waistband just above my hip, then I'm gonna board a flight to America and pay tribute to the despotic ruler I worship.

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Jul 15, 2015

Jul 15, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC

lexander-jones

21st Century Idiocracy

I think I'm gonna buy myself a bomb to destroy this blasé mirage, with a mortuaries brush and a bullet I'll paint myself in blood to camouflage the scars of belief etched upon my scowling, juvenile face a brainwashed idiocratic believer following the languishing entity far up in space - conscience ridden with bruises and hickies flesh burns, prickles and stings I'm merely a pawn, deluded with disdain, one of thy lord's pathetic playthings I don't need no one, anyone, I'm the sole writer of my fate the world will crumble 'neath my feet as the Angels weep at it's sorry state I'll **** the blood from life's bare, fresh-skinned neck piercing jugulars, cavorting with insanity pulling continuous jokers from within my deck and then you know what I'll do next? As I push myself to the crowd's fore? I'll active the dynamite strapped to my chest and blow my writhing guts all over the floor - Oh I think I'm gonna buy myself a bomb, hide the detonator in the waistband just above my hip, then I'm gonna board a flight to America and pay tribute to the despotic ruler I worship.

29

Spring is here This time we are witnessing Blossoms from our windows Shops are the same But we are ordering online No full parking lots No crowded aisles No rushing to your offices No rushing cars on the Three lanes of highways Only places crowded Are the hospitals And the mortuaries God has painted a very bleak Very heart wrenching picture of planet Earth Still, mankind is clapping And singing, and jiving In homes, cheering on life ‘Cause life still exists And God is watching how We are still keeping our lamps lighted!

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Aug 27, 2022

Aug 27, 2022 at 4:33 PM UTC

madhukanta-sen2x

Lending color to Bleak

Spring is here This time we are witnessing Blossoms from our windows Shops are the same But we are ordering online No full parking lots No crowded aisles No rushing to your offices No rushing cars on the Three lanes of highways Only places crowded Are the hospitals And the mortuaries God has painted a very bleak Very heart wrenching picture of planet Earth Still, mankind is clapping And singing, and jiving In homes, cheering on life ‘Cause life still exists And God is watching how We are still keeping our lamps lighted!

21

Cadaver animated by Marxism Corpse possessed by militancy Dead body filled with resentment Zombie legions stirred by revolution Mortuaries quickened by Dialectical Materialism Necropolises of confrontation Armies of dysfunctional ignorance Reanimated carcasses of class consciousness Semi-informed legions of the Undead

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Oct 27, 2019

Oct 27, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC

connecthook

Nature of the Enemy

Cadaver animated by Marxism Corpse possessed by militancy Dead body filled with resentment Zombie legions stirred by revolution Mortuaries quickened by Dialectical Materialism Necropolises of confrontation Armies of dysfunctional ignorance Reanimated carcasses of class consciousness Semi-informed legions of the Undead

9

Who can hang with the flow None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows Yo I be rippin'and then dippin' Tearin' up emcees Like slams of Scottie Pippen my clips in Begins mad *********** static the stations Once I step to the nation makin' innovations My team's basically waiting invoking Satan Many not Makin? Their moves ya vital signs leakin' homes I'mma keep rappin' til in a funeral home I'm makin' rap mortuaries to every body who get buried And married into the afterworld it varies Scenarios carry easily we hurry hotter than jamacian curry Lookin' at my right hand my pistol grip pumpin' Increase hearts ya jumpin' ivs dumping Tryna keep you alive bumpin' all jive yo we always into something..... My ****** rate dominate in all states undercover I'll annihilate And humiliate to those that wanna test thier fates I'm makin' casket crates three in a row seven each That means twenty one bodies leach I preach What I teach never a leech ya contracts breach Eulogy given flows hit like Julius Jackson stickin' Uppercuts from ya head to gut ya know what We bout to do **** ya crew like soundview Feel the blast spin around adversaries like Taz Leave a destructive path death gets the last laugh Powerful paragraphs that entice blood baths Master the craft still layin' my grande shaft A **** ero sick with the turntable beatin' labels She feelin' on my cables my necklace ain't no checkin' this Yo this ****** Ludacris number one spot I keep locked Like an Alcatraz prison spiritually risen Ya mentals genuflected from the music that christens Who can hang with the flow None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows

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Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 5:18 AM UTC

Ru7hl355_Gangsta

Blow 4 Blow (They Can't Hang So)

Who can hang with the flow None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows Yo I be rippin'and then dippin' Tearin' up emcees Like slams of Scottie Pippen my clips in Begins mad *********** static the stations Once I step to the nation makin' innovations My team's basically waiting invoking Satan Many not Makin? Their moves ya vital signs leakin' homes I'mma keep rappin' til in a funeral home I'm makin' rap mortuaries to every body who get buried And married into the afterworld it varies Scenarios carry easily we hurry hotter than jamacian curry Lookin' at my right hand my pistol grip pumpin' Increase hearts ya jumpin' ivs dumping Tryna keep you alive bumpin' all jive yo we always into something..... My ****** rate dominate in all states undercover I'll annihilate And humiliate to those that wanna test thier fates I'm makin' casket crates three in a row seven each That means twenty one bodies leach I preach What I teach never a leech ya contracts breach Eulogy given flows hit like Julius Jackson stickin' Uppercuts from ya head to gut ya know what We bout to do **** ya crew like soundview Feel the blast spin around adversaries like Taz Leave a destructive path death gets the last laugh Powerful paragraphs that entice blood baths Master the craft still layin' my grande shaft A **** ero sick with the turntable beatin' labels She feelin' on my cables my necklace ain't no checkin' this Yo this ****** Ludacris number one spot I keep locked Like an Alcatraz prison spiritually risen Ya mentals genuflected from the music that christens Who can hang with the flow None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows

37

Screaming obscenities flatline and ice cold in thousands of mortuaries, been there done that had the treatment shocked back still screaming. It is the Thursday the fourth day in the week which is the limit of my life I am somewhere in the middle having breakfast with my wife and so soon it will be Friday I keep my eye on that day which though near is still quite far away Live in hope? we all do don't we? and to find a purpose, a reason to go on beyond the Thursday gone. In this awesome state of wait and see an occasional obscenity slips from me that's allowed or if not it should be.

0

Apr 29, 2017

Apr 29, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Backstage

Screaming obscenities flatline and ice cold in thousands of mortuaries, been there done that had the treatment shocked back still screaming. It is the Thursday the fourth day in the week which is the limit of my life I am somewhere in the middle having breakfast with my wife and so soon it will be Friday I keep my eye on that day which though near is still quite far away Live in hope? we all do don't we? and to find a purpose, a reason to go on beyond the Thursday gone. In this awesome state of wait and see an occasional obscenity slips from me that's allowed or if not it should be.

33