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"obituary" poems
Clothes have outgrown me many times over, but this sadness never does. One size. fits all. There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you. Wishing these slits within my skin could have been replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.” My name causes a sigh to escape from lips, that do not feel like they belong to me, the girl, whose words always had to be special. The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain, born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child. Never trusting time due to what it delivers. Death, being the only thing I desired. But you,  who I love, endlessly- robbed by it. Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly. Stopped comparing depression to lace, restricted the belief that suicide is poetic, seeing things as they were. More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply. Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes. This world is not tender. II. Sad. I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral, knowing how many bouquets honored you that day. split open my veins like a dimension reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds. My family wondered, can we make it through another day? Death scares me for what it has taken, yet, I’m not afraid to die- it’s all I deserve. So I await the day pain erupts from my throat, acknowledging the days a soul lived inside of my body- footprints that walked, belonging to me. But I learned so well. How to suffer with a smile, dreading the beating of my heart how unfair— I don’t want to take these deep breaths You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed. III. Jokes played by the universe. punchlines delivered, how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself? How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets, and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them? How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought- of knowing people would thrive without me, or the power of a belly laugh, resembling a laugh track audience drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
0
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
nucherub
Writing Suicide Notes In Gel Pen
Clothes have outgrown me many times over, but this sadness never does. One size. fits all. There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you. Wishing these slits within my skin could have been replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.” My name causes a sigh to escape from lips, that do not feel like they belong to me, the girl, whose words always had to be special. The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain, born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child. Never trusting time due to what it delivers. Death, being the only thing I desired. But you,  who I love, endlessly- robbed by it. Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly. Stopped comparing depression to lace, restricted the belief that suicide is poetic, seeing things as they were. More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply. Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes. This world is not tender. II. Sad. I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral, knowing how many bouquets honored you that day. split open my veins like a dimension reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds. My family wondered, can we make it through another day? Death scares me for what it has taken, yet, I’m not afraid to die- it’s all I deserve. So I await the day pain erupts from my throat, acknowledging the days a soul lived inside of my body- footprints that walked, belonging to me. But I learned so well. How to suffer with a smile, dreading the beating of my heart how unfair— I don’t want to take these deep breaths You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed. III. Jokes played by the universe. punchlines delivered, how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself? How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets, and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them? How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought- of knowing people would thrive without me, or the power of a belly laugh, resembling a laugh track audience drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
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60
Iron bench, open sore dragon rock, three in score flesh on body, tortured soul arms high, in hell's hole Corner bulb, neon light drake hotel, second flight jolly pop, rizla plus open flame, behind the bus Broken fixtures, tully hat channel swimmer, at the bat blind alley, words of cuss dealer waving, in a fuss Grim reaper, boys in blue super bee, armored shrew ****** sips, swollen glands potpourri, on demand Black death, huddler's arch beat the cold, and summer parch toothless grin, ****** glare obituary, to be shared Dead of night, decontrol cheeva tar, black coal east central, chinatown mr. freeze, is coming down Foot soldier, skidder row chicken feed, and white blow silver spoon, casted hand demons surface, on demand Frantic sounds, below the glass poison waiting, to be passed crack pipes, over coat bodies flat, begin to float Gospel sounds, from union square friends gather, deep in prayer guardian angels, now deployed thornton park, without a void Covenant house, in holy charm welcomes all, with open arms salvation spreads, on chapel row kindness that, cannot be sold
0
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
ck-baker
Pidgeon Park
Iron bench, open sore dragon rock, three in score flesh on body, tortured soul arms high, in hell's hole Corner bulb, neon light drake hotel, second flight jolly pop, rizla plus open flame, behind the bus Broken fixtures, tully hat channel swimmer, at the bat blind alley, words of cuss dealer waving, in a fuss Grim reaper, boys in blue super bee, armored shrew ****** sips, swollen glands potpourri, on demand Black death, huddler's arch beat the cold, and summer parch toothless grin, ****** glare obituary, to be shared Dead of night, decontrol cheeva tar, black coal east central, chinatown mr. freeze, is coming down Foot soldier, skidder row chicken feed, and white blow silver spoon, casted hand demons surface, on demand Frantic sounds, below the glass poison waiting, to be passed crack pipes, over coat bodies flat, begin to float Gospel sounds, from union square friends gather, deep in prayer guardian angels, now deployed thornton park, without a void Covenant house, in holy charm welcomes all, with open arms salvation spreads, on chapel row kindness that, cannot be sold
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40
MOMMY DEAREST sadly, you killed everyone in your head including the loving person i knew, growing up with a best friend that ended up being my mother, and the past twelve years i watched as you died and the heartbreak you caused all who loved you and by denying the help they gave you by denying the help you needed to accept reality the way we have to, and so as you've killed us all and isolated yourself to the point that i'd had to write your eulogy, for you couldn't accept your life's detachment from everyone, ties you severed yourself, and that me being the only one left left me with no choice but to bury you six feet deeper than the demons i created on my own because I can't take care of yours too in the fifth circle of hell after I've escaped purgatory senses and discovered my freedom's as a man.
0
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
sal-gelles
I guess I have to write (my mother's obituary)
MOMMY DEAREST sadly, you killed everyone in your head including the loving person i knew, growing up with a best friend that ended up being my mother, and the past twelve years i watched as you died and the heartbreak you caused all who loved you and by denying the help they gave you by denying the help you needed to accept reality the way we have to, and so as you've killed us all and isolated yourself to the point that i'd had to write your eulogy, for you couldn't accept your life's detachment from everyone, ties you severed yourself, and that me being the only one left left me with no choice but to bury you six feet deeper than the demons i created on my own because I can't take care of yours too in the fifth circle of hell after I've escaped purgatory senses and discovered my freedom's as a man.
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25
while september cicadas were singing my neighbors to sleep i was up walking holes in my shoes over love once lost so many poems ago that the only thing i remember about the house at 38th & bluestone is that it reeked of alcohol and is as i'm sure of it still saturated in perfume and abandoned laughter but that's not the point give me a minute what i'm trying to say is i always thought god enjoyed watching things leave me it makes me wonder what was on his mind that night in september when i stooped to cough or tie my shoelaces i no longer remember why but i recall their trajectory the way gravity cradled my hands and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747 they landed inches away from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf folded in half like the smiles of my relatives on a holiday truce you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper i find myself checking the obituary for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history maybe archeology is just a funeral in reverse maybe hell is just rewinding home movies or watching confetti turn back into photographs i never told anyone the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid i will take my life but because sometimes i sing them birthday songs on the day you died it makes me think of how rooms only echo when they are empty *you know i never echoed until you died*
0
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
TomLeveille
seance
while september cicadas were singing my neighbors to sleep i was up walking holes in my shoes over love once lost so many poems ago that the only thing i remember about the house at 38th & bluestone is that it reeked of alcohol and is as i'm sure of it still saturated in perfume and abandoned laughter but that's not the point give me a minute what i'm trying to say is i always thought god enjoyed watching things leave me it makes me wonder what was on his mind that night in september when i stooped to cough or tie my shoelaces i no longer remember why but i recall their trajectory the way gravity cradled my hands and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747 they landed inches away from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf folded in half like the smiles of my relatives on a holiday truce you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper i find myself checking the obituary for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history maybe archeology is just a funeral in reverse maybe hell is just rewinding home movies or watching confetti turn back into photographs i never told anyone the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid i will take my life but because sometimes i sing them birthday songs on the day you died it makes me think of how rooms only echo when they are empty *you know i never echoed until you died*
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49
was he loving was he kind did he always speak his mind was he thoughtful was he warm did he listen, and conform was he faithful was he loyal did he tinker, did he toil was he patient was he tough did he dream, big enough was he funny was he wise did he brim with dull surprise was he humble was he vowed did he always make you proud was it sudden was it slow was there nothing left untold was he ready was it time was forgiveness left behind
0
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
ck-baker
Obituary
was he loving was he kind did he always speak his mind was he thoughtful was he warm did he listen, and conform was he faithful was he loyal did he tinker, did he toil was he patient was he tough did he dream, big enough was he funny was he wise did he brim with dull surprise was he humble was he vowed did he always make you proud was it sudden was it slow was there nothing left untold was he ready was it time was forgiveness left behind
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24
I am alive by luck at this point. I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made. Whose trigger will bury me. How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed. Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank. If not me, then someone else. Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore. And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline. Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn. But we will no longer be martyrs. We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes. You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw. You smell like gun smoke and I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them. Give teachers books not bullets: Kafka isn’t kevlar. Bronte isn’t bulletproof. And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions. Throwing opinions like punches. How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is? And I, too, am buried alive My soggy grave parting its greedy lips. To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne. My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure We are “just kids,” But you are forgetting we are the next generation And you autopsy your fists. Call it reclamatory. Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living. And who knows if mine will be next
0
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
MegL
Ammunition: a eulogy for parkland
I am alive by luck at this point. I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made. Whose trigger will bury me. How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed. Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank. If not me, then someone else. Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore. And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline. Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn. But we will no longer be martyrs. We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes. You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw. You smell like gun smoke and I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them. Give teachers books not bullets: Kafka isn’t kevlar. Bronte isn’t bulletproof. And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions. Throwing opinions like punches. How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is? And I, too, am buried alive My soggy grave parting its greedy lips. To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne. My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure We are “just kids,” But you are forgetting we are the next generation And you autopsy your fists. Call it reclamatory. Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living. And who knows if mine will be next
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31
so i get this idea sometimes that you enjoy being coy when it comes to me to conjure momentary spectacle & make me wonder if you paint catharsis on the doors of a home you've never lived in as a memory of our first night together because i do, i remember you beaming white on blue speaking softer than any storm i ever knew, i often think that maybe you live that night in your mind when your pillow is cold & you can't sleep, it makes me wonder if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere maybe a balcony or a quiet car on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart i wonder if sometimes the idea of me loving you is too real and if it teems under your tongue to stay observant but distantly intrigued if by this distance you think it safe to get a dog and pass time on the couch with a journal & some wine what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them or if they would boast about winning a war with my headboard i wonder if you can imagine me meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand as a first of many calloused palm readings and if you know that i trembled before them how insignificant i had felt to not know their daughter in the way i had envisioned how i picture such poignant moments so tangibly sharp that sometimes i replace my memories with little stories i tell myself that i can't count on two hands the number of times i've seen you & that i don't feel like a crater when i recollect our collisions i want to know if you still find madness in the words that have always been about you i wanna know if your imagination of me looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
0
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
TomLeveille
bars in your hometown
so i get this idea sometimes that you enjoy being coy when it comes to me to conjure momentary spectacle & make me wonder if you paint catharsis on the doors of a home you've never lived in as a memory of our first night together because i do, i remember you beaming white on blue speaking softer than any storm i ever knew, i often think that maybe you live that night in your mind when your pillow is cold & you can't sleep, it makes me wonder if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere maybe a balcony or a quiet car on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart i wonder if sometimes the idea of me loving you is too real and if it teems under your tongue to stay observant but distantly intrigued if by this distance you think it safe to get a dog and pass time on the couch with a journal & some wine what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them or if they would boast about winning a war with my headboard i wonder if you can imagine me meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand as a first of many calloused palm readings and if you know that i trembled before them how insignificant i had felt to not know their daughter in the way i had envisioned how i picture such poignant moments so tangibly sharp that sometimes i replace my memories with little stories i tell myself that i can't count on two hands the number of times i've seen you & that i don't feel like a crater when i recollect our collisions i want to know if you still find madness in the words that have always been about you i wanna know if your imagination of me looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
Continue reading...
47
Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news, printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.
0
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
lostscars
Short, Totally Meaningless Stories
Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news, printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.
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1
Sara L Russell, 23rd October 2014, 01:01 She was sunlight and cinnamon; all wide eyes, auburn hair, fair complexion freckles and fleeting laughter. She was an enigma to her friends, a golden girl to her parents… Dappled sunlight turned her into fragments of an autumn impressionist panting; all her reds, golds and peach tones wildly blazing, vividly flaming in a sunset's haze. She could make people laugh with a dry turn of phrase. She could silence a room just by walking in through the door. She could silence cruel words with a withering look. She was going to be somebody; the world was going to know her name, the future was forever - until he caught her, used her, left her under autumn leaves in a ditch by the roadside; and he became somebody and she became the face of the girl killed by him. Hollywood made a thriller about him and his crime; and her mother made an album of photos of her; and the local paper published her brief obituary.
0
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
sara-l-russell
Sunlight and Cinnamon
Sara L Russell, 23rd October 2014, 01:01 She was sunlight and cinnamon; all wide eyes, auburn hair, fair complexion freckles and fleeting laughter. She was an enigma to her friends, a golden girl to her parents… Dappled sunlight turned her into fragments of an autumn impressionist panting; all her reds, golds and peach tones wildly blazing, vividly flaming in a sunset's haze. She could make people laugh with a dry turn of phrase. She could silence a room just by walking in through the door. She could silence cruel words with a withering look. She was going to be somebody; the world was going to know her name, the future was forever - until he caught her, used her, left her under autumn leaves in a ditch by the roadside; and he became somebody and she became the face of the girl killed by him. Hollywood made a thriller about him and his crime; and her mother made an album of photos of her; and the local paper published her brief obituary.
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33
Home bound after work near 12:30 am just a few minutes from checking my email then retiring as us old folks like to call it from the North side of route 7 at a slight angle there and gone in half a second was the biggest meteor I've ever seen if that's what it was so big that I slowed and listened for a boom but nothing came I have no idea how far it went before touching down but this isn't about the meteor this is about the fact that when I got home and thought about who I would tell... there was no one that came to mind I've seen so much crazy **** in my life that the stories have grown old even the new ones I breathed life into a dead woman one morning then faced the fact that I couldn't save another hit by a truck on my way home just after midnight on the day before the great Russian meteor I saw 2 objects in the sky on fire and not moving... in broad daylight I've been touched and spoken to by spirits or ghosts or phantoms take your pick I saw 3000 people sacrificed in the name of what? and as a child I witnessed a president murdered by those supposed to follow him I've grown to see the young know nothing of that last President who actually had a vision and a spine and when I quietly leave this life there will be little to note... a brief glance of my obituary by a few sad souls I often think of a quote I heard as a young man by a comedian; George Gobel who was on the 'Tonight Show' Dean Martin and Bob Hope were also on that show and unknown to George, Dean was flipping his cigarette ashes in George's drink as he was telling his humorous stories this caused the laughs to come out of sequence...and finally a confused George said; 'Did you ever feel like the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?'
0
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
RoyDeckard
brown shoes
Home bound after work near 12:30 am just a few minutes from checking my email then retiring as us old folks like to call it from the North side of route 7 at a slight angle there and gone in half a second was the biggest meteor I've ever seen if that's what it was so big that I slowed and listened for a boom but nothing came I have no idea how far it went before touching down but this isn't about the meteor this is about the fact that when I got home and thought about who I would tell... there was no one that came to mind I've seen so much crazy **** in my life that the stories have grown old even the new ones I breathed life into a dead woman one morning then faced the fact that I couldn't save another hit by a truck on my way home just after midnight on the day before the great Russian meteor I saw 2 objects in the sky on fire and not moving... in broad daylight I've been touched and spoken to by spirits or ghosts or phantoms take your pick I saw 3000 people sacrificed in the name of what? and as a child I witnessed a president murdered by those supposed to follow him I've grown to see the young know nothing of that last President who actually had a vision and a spine and when I quietly leave this life there will be little to note... a brief glance of my obituary by a few sad souls I often think of a quote I heard as a young man by a comedian; George Gobel who was on the 'Tonight Show' Dean Martin and Bob Hope were also on that show and unknown to George, Dean was flipping his cigarette ashes in George's drink as he was telling his humorous stories this caused the laughs to come out of sequence...and finally a confused George said; 'Did you ever feel like the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?'
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46
i hope you get into medical school so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks but never the self control stop eating them i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers   i hope your children are loved and cared for but have their hearts broken by mine i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party i hope you always wake well rested 3 hours late for work i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain and catch metaphoric pneumonia i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning i hope all your book pages stick together i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water i hope you always find the words to say but never the right time to say them i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado i hope all your dinners are directly impacted by the fickle nature of a toaster oven i hope your curiosity gets the better of you and you find out what cat food tastes like i hope your favorite band breaks up and you miss their kick *** reunion tour i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed because nothing would make my ghost happier to know that you were forced to find out after  literally everyone else that i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
0
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
ADeco
finding elegant ways to say go **** yourself
i hope you get into medical school so all i have to do is eat an apple everyday i hope you always have money to buy extra bread-sticks but never the self control stop eating them i hope your 15 seconds of fame falls on daylight savings i hope you never avoid movie or tv spoilers   i hope your children are loved and cared for but have their hearts broken by mine i hope you always anticipate a surprise birthday party i hope you always wake well rested 3 hours late for work i hope you dance in the metaphoric rain and catch metaphoric pneumonia i hope your next thanksgiving is spent in an airport i hope you are mildly inconvenienced every morning i hope all your book pages stick together i hope that you always will question if you left your oven on i hope your future roommates always use all the hot water i hope you always find the words to say but never the right time to say them i hope you never figure out how to pick a ripe avocado i hope all your dinners are directly impacted by the fickle nature of a toaster oven i hope your curiosity gets the better of you and you find out what cat food tastes like i hope your favorite band breaks up and you miss their kick *** reunion tour i hope you watch an unhealthy amount of daytime tv i hope you outlive me on the off chance that your paper boy will miraculously skip your house on the day my obituary is printed because nothing would make my ghost happier to know that you were forced to find out after  literally everyone else that i passed away in my sleep surrounded by people who loved me while you sat in your house old grey never thinking of me until you read some 50 words in a newspaper and even if its for a second i want you to wonder what kind of life i had because you will have had no part in it.
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34
this is a poem about how you sleep, how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary. how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you. did you know that you turned away from me every time i tried to face you? did you do it on purpose? maybe you were afraid i would be able to see you were dreaming of her, that i would read it on your face. lines by your mouth like obituary, like roadmap, her bedroom, the destination, mine, a pitstop. loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself and sitting in the front row. no. loving you was like watching you pick out a casket and call it practice. **** i know how sensitive you are about death. i know it still hurts. i know how everything hurts. i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts. i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me. like if i can somehow dig deep enough, wound you into remembering me. i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.   i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been. but this isn't about me. this is about the way you sleep like you're waiting for someone to close the lid, cover you in dirt, and read a psalm. this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together, and the way my voice gives out when i read the things you write for anyone other than me. lover, friend, stranger, i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts. i never meant to become one. i am so ******* selfish. but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps. and you used to think my two left feet were charming. i am out of time in more ways than one. i keep stepping on your toes. i can't seem to stop tripping you up, hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was. - m.f.
0
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
berry
cadavre
this is a poem about how you sleep, how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary. how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you. did you know that you turned away from me every time i tried to face you? did you do it on purpose? maybe you were afraid i would be able to see you were dreaming of her, that i would read it on your face. lines by your mouth like obituary, like roadmap, her bedroom, the destination, mine, a pitstop. loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself and sitting in the front row. no. loving you was like watching you pick out a casket and call it practice. **** i know how sensitive you are about death. i know it still hurts. i know how everything hurts. i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts. i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me. like if i can somehow dig deep enough, wound you into remembering me. i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.   i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been. but this isn't about me. this is about the way you sleep like you're waiting for someone to close the lid, cover you in dirt, and read a psalm. this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together, and the way my voice gives out when i read the things you write for anyone other than me. lover, friend, stranger, i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts. i never meant to become one. i am so ******* selfish. but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps. and you used to think my two left feet were charming. i am out of time in more ways than one. i keep stepping on your toes. i can't seem to stop tripping you up, hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was. - m.f.
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44
I knew a kid in highschool Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement, He was a friend of a friend at most, The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class Second seat from the right, second to last from the back The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows I remember that scene like a diagram, I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but, I knew a kid in highschool He was best friends with my childhood best friend He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy I remember the last words I said to him Well not quite, I remember the vague idea Something along the lines of it only gets worse He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work I told him it only gets worse I knew a kid in highschool He killed himself during the weekend The Monday they announced in I was sick I was sick His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page The page to a book I couldn’t afford He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name I knew a kid in highschool
0
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
luna-craft
I knew a kid
I knew a kid in highschool Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement, He was a friend of a friend at most, The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class Second seat from the right, second to last from the back The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows I remember that scene like a diagram, I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but, I knew a kid in highschool He was best friends with my childhood best friend He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy I remember the last words I said to him Well not quite, I remember the vague idea Something along the lines of it only gets worse He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work I told him it only gets worse I knew a kid in highschool He killed himself during the weekend The Monday they announced in I was sick I was sick His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page The page to a book I couldn’t afford He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name I knew a kid in highschool
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32
The last knight had died ungallantly He folded in a disappointed silence As did the age he stood for. So long to the bygone era. The romanticism of a stoic ideal Remained to mark his passing, Like an obituary in the paper That people glance at for a brief moment Before continueing with the idleness of their day. The muddied sky of an industrial world Stretched over a land like a blanket of shame To destroy the traditions of a knight Who once fought for the people who turned to destroy him.
0
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
LifeOnMars
The last Knight
The last knight had died ungallantly He folded in a disappointed silence As did the age he stood for. So long to the bygone era. The romanticism of a stoic ideal Remained to mark his passing, Like an obituary in the paper That people glance at for a brief moment Before continueing with the idleness of their day. The muddied sky of an industrial world Stretched over a land like a blanket of shame To destroy the traditions of a knight Who once fought for the people who turned to destroy him.
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13
I started with my dress, The white one with the black flowery design. I added my black scarf, draping it Casually around my head, Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting To what I was dressing up for. I slipped on my sandals and then Slipped out the door, Not slamming it because that felt like An ending. I didn’t want another ending. Walking into the church, The temperature went up 50 degrees, And my anxiety went up 100. I shook hands with the extended family, Hugged your widow, And comforted your grandchildren. I made it through the opening liturgy, Your favorite hymn, and the obituary. I even stopped my tears from falling During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy, When she started sobbing up there on the altar. Afterwards, I sat through the meal, Everything tasting like cardboard in My mouth as the temperature kept increasing. Near the end of the night, When the church was clearing out, I went back to the food, Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole Before I could finally leave this night behind. Yet when I get there, The tray is cleaned out, And there is no more cheesy potato casserole. That’s when I finally break down and sob. I didn’t get that last bite of Cheesy potato casserole.
0
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
TigerLily13
That Last Bite of Cheesy Potato Casserole
I started with my dress, The white one with the black flowery design. I added my black scarf, draping it Casually around my head, Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting To what I was dressing up for. I slipped on my sandals and then Slipped out the door, Not slamming it because that felt like An ending. I didn’t want another ending. Walking into the church, The temperature went up 50 degrees, And my anxiety went up 100. I shook hands with the extended family, Hugged your widow, And comforted your grandchildren. I made it through the opening liturgy, Your favorite hymn, and the obituary. I even stopped my tears from falling During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy, When she started sobbing up there on the altar. Afterwards, I sat through the meal, Everything tasting like cardboard in My mouth as the temperature kept increasing. Near the end of the night, When the church was clearing out, I went back to the food, Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole Before I could finally leave this night behind. Yet when I get there, The tray is cleaned out, And there is no more cheesy potato casserole. That’s when I finally break down and sob. I didn’t get that last bite of Cheesy potato casserole.
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36
*finding this morning awareness of loss the obituary entry this physical sense.. those lesser deaths portrayed as loss fill electronic news.. Approaching loss or loss Approaching..? loss seems woven into our fabric.. our morning Nutrition: approaching is longing to locate disclosures of buried light under the garments we wear...*
0
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
charlesc
Approaching loss
*finding this morning awareness of loss the obituary entry this physical sense.. those lesser deaths portrayed as loss fill electronic news.. Approaching loss or loss Approaching..? loss seems woven into our fabric.. our morning Nutrition: approaching is longing to locate disclosures of buried light under the garments we wear...*
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17
Killed himself when Thomas Edison beat him to the punch And went down in history as nothing much More than an obituary
0
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
holly-salvatore
The Inventor
Killed himself when Thomas Edison beat him to the punch And went down in history as nothing much More than an obituary
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3
I love da sound ya ***** does make While slapping up against your sister, for Christ sake Watching you all doing the ***** deed, doggy style On ya momma's brand new, multi coloured **** pile   ***** young boys, are forever slapping, keepin’ it real While viewing ya ***** in ya year nine, high school classes Even some curious gals, like to slip in a quick feel While flashing their hallway entry, fancy gold passes Da sound ya ***** makes, ya must be using an amplifier With a **** load of flaming, boom-boom, bass   Next time though, try turning the treble up, as you were And turning down that flaming bass, just in case   This mornin’, I woke up stiff, like feelin’ as if dead Then flicked through the paper, my obituary, I just read Didn't feel that great, after we had finished the missionary Wish I was much more aware, like a future visionary I haven't even ironed my clothes or done my face For my very last day of this bright sunlight   Will I need to pack a jumbo suitcase Or maybe just some shorts and thongs On my mystery vacation, one-way flight Da sound ya ***** was making when shaking Was maybe way too loud for some, last night It put me in, like a clothes dryer spin   Police came by, just to check that no one was pranking With some spray with mace, just when I was about to sin Everyone's got an unusual craze in life Mine just happened to put me in a daze   Should've taken a much deeper breath When going down between ya momma's thighs   Send flowers to my ******* and hoes And never ever forget, ya ****** nice ways Always tried to satisfy the whole **** world But still hearing some sad **** woes I like da sound ya ***** makes Reminds me of some ole dance tracks Played by the DJ, named Georgie O’Kay While everyone dances to a beat I'm hard at work, while trying to get ya To get down lower and pretend to be ya momma.
0
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Fetchitnow
Da Sound Ya ***** Makes
I love da sound ya ***** does make While slapping up against your sister, for Christ sake Watching you all doing the ***** deed, doggy style On ya momma's brand new, multi coloured **** pile   ***** young boys, are forever slapping, keepin’ it real While viewing ya ***** in ya year nine, high school classes Even some curious gals, like to slip in a quick feel While flashing their hallway entry, fancy gold passes Da sound ya ***** makes, ya must be using an amplifier With a **** load of flaming, boom-boom, bass   Next time though, try turning the treble up, as you were And turning down that flaming bass, just in case   This mornin’, I woke up stiff, like feelin’ as if dead Then flicked through the paper, my obituary, I just read Didn't feel that great, after we had finished the missionary Wish I was much more aware, like a future visionary I haven't even ironed my clothes or done my face For my very last day of this bright sunlight   Will I need to pack a jumbo suitcase Or maybe just some shorts and thongs On my mystery vacation, one-way flight Da sound ya ***** was making when shaking Was maybe way too loud for some, last night It put me in, like a clothes dryer spin   Police came by, just to check that no one was pranking With some spray with mace, just when I was about to sin Everyone's got an unusual craze in life Mine just happened to put me in a daze   Should've taken a much deeper breath When going down between ya momma's thighs   Send flowers to my ******* and hoes And never ever forget, ya ****** nice ways Always tried to satisfy the whole **** world But still hearing some sad **** woes I like da sound ya ***** makes Reminds me of some ole dance tracks Played by the DJ, named Georgie O’Kay While everyone dances to a beat I'm hard at work, while trying to get ya To get down lower and pretend to be ya momma.
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40
How many More creative Ways can I say I wanna die. I hear they're Gonna Go to Mars. While I moulder In my filth, Ferment in My forgetfulness. And God Says, Put in more Work Slave. And, I do. But I've gone Past redemption Got stuck In retribution. And all of this Torment Would end. If I could only Just disappear Into The epilogue Of an Obituary.
0
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:08 PM UTC
nolan-bucsis
Recursive Self Harm
How many More creative Ways can I say I wanna die. I hear they're Gonna Go to Mars. While I moulder In my filth, Ferment in My forgetfulness. And God Says, Put in more Work Slave. And, I do. But I've gone Past redemption Got stuck In retribution. And all of this Torment Would end. If I could only Just disappear Into The epilogue Of an Obituary.
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32
He moved away in 5th grade A few towns down Never saw him or heard of him after that until the news. Taught me how to write my number 9's Fancy like they did in the text book We joked about movies we liked in 3rd grade But he was hit by a car and killed at age 13 1/3 of our middle school hung our heads like a rusty sign on a graveyard gate and the other 2/3 chatted about not knowing him All he is known for now is his ending The news advertised his life as "Hit by a car and died" The obituary sums him up but only we know the real him and what lies behind that title
0
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
margaretmaloney
Shayne
He moved away in 5th grade A few towns down Never saw him or heard of him after that until the news. Taught me how to write my number 9's Fancy like they did in the text book We joked about movies we liked in 3rd grade But he was hit by a car and killed at age 13 1/3 of our middle school hung our heads like a rusty sign on a graveyard gate and the other 2/3 chatted about not knowing him All he is known for now is his ending The news advertised his life as "Hit by a car and died" The obituary sums him up but only we know the real him and what lies behind that title
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24
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.) Don’t ask me why but I went online this afternoon. Read the Miami-Herald obituaries. And not just the Biggies: Maya Angelou at 86 and A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries. Of course we knew Maya, Her caged bird singing Softly in our souls, But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries. A former singer in the Ellington band, Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo, In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns-- His nickname evoking His racial identity, Quite muddled, flexible. Although both sad passages to be sure, It was neither Maya nor Herb Triggering my tender tears. But the obituary of: ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI, Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama. Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit, My tears for her long-lived mother, Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding, Still breathing at 97: Hildegard Wolle. Reading Brigitte’s bio— German born, Berlin student, Singer-fashionista & Proud, naturalized American citizen— I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard. As if the woman didn’t already Have more than her share of trouble On this planet nearly a century, Having already lost her Grandson Roland, and now, Her daughter. Something wacky is going on here. Some long-distance life lesson Being applied here. Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s, Suffers crystal distant memories, Some really bad karma Stored up in past lives.
0
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
giuseppi-martino-buonaiuto
“Miami Death Watch”
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.) Don’t ask me why but I went online this afternoon. Read the Miami-Herald obituaries. And not just the Biggies: Maya Angelou at 86 and A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries. Of course we knew Maya, Her caged bird singing Softly in our souls, But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries. A former singer in the Ellington band, Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo, In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns-- His nickname evoking His racial identity, Quite muddled, flexible. Although both sad passages to be sure, It was neither Maya nor Herb Triggering my tender tears. But the obituary of: ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI, Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama. Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit, My tears for her long-lived mother, Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding, Still breathing at 97: Hildegard Wolle. Reading Brigitte’s bio— German born, Berlin student, Singer-fashionista & Proud, naturalized American citizen— I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard. As if the woman didn’t already Have more than her share of trouble On this planet nearly a century, Having already lost her Grandson Roland, and now, Her daughter. Something wacky is going on here. Some long-distance life lesson Being applied here. Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s, Suffers crystal distant memories, Some really bad karma Stored up in past lives.
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48
old school rap, you always tried to tell me and i couldn't listen until you were gone. sunny open window naked romping music moving forward from your empty body music pale skin but not as pale as yours was. when i met this new person , he said                                           it's time for new songs                                           something to mark this page with but i just keep rereading your obituary
0
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 3:40 AM UTC
kiagen-mcginnis
leukemia
old school rap, you always tried to tell me and i couldn't listen until you were gone. sunny open window naked romping music moving forward from your empty body music pale skin but not as pale as yours was. when i met this new person , he said                                           it's time for new songs                                           something to mark this page with but i just keep rereading your obituary
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12
Life is too short for this. I have never found a good enough reason, A deep enough betrayal, A hideous enough flaw To condemn someone I love. Life Is too Short, And I can try all I want to stay angry But all I can think is if someday I read their obituary in the newspaper, Will the days, Months, Years I lost to silence To grudges To misunderstanding To judgement Be worth the feeling of that moment? Will whatever made me hate them have any meaning in the face of oblivion? And the answer is always no. And the answer is always forgiveness. And I wish they gave me the same gift.
0
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
mikaila
ForGIVEness
Life is too short for this. I have never found a good enough reason, A deep enough betrayal, A hideous enough flaw To condemn someone I love. Life Is too Short, And I can try all I want to stay angry But all I can think is if someday I read their obituary in the newspaper, Will the days, Months, Years I lost to silence To grudges To misunderstanding To judgement Be worth the feeling of that moment? Will whatever made me hate them have any meaning in the face of oblivion? And the answer is always no. And the answer is always forgiveness. And I wish they gave me the same gift.
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21
Lonely and lost I read the Obituary of my heart. It is Verbose yet vague. Everyone silently sits, listening to the Story of its break. I am sick with the thoughts of its Corruption and contamination against love. It Keeps me from moving on.
0
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 5:28 PM UTC
jessica-giles
Lovesick
Lonely and lost I read the Obituary of my heart. It is Verbose yet vague. Everyone silently sits, listening to the Story of its break. I am sick with the thoughts of its Corruption and contamination against love. It Keeps me from moving on.
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7