Grave People Poems

These Grave People poems are examples of Grave poems about People. These are the best examples of Grave People poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Elegy |
Moon Walk on Your Grave

A life begun in stardom,
now, ending up in shame.
Relentless media, cruel world,
who then is there to blame.

A sadness inside,
no tears on your face.
The pain all but over,
mass confusion erase.

In wonder we watch,
can a life be explained?
Can't surface your agony,
under facade you remained.

Let's focus on the talent,
musical joy that you gave.
In peace now I pray,
moon walk on your grave.

© Rene' Brady 2009

Copyright © Rene' Brady | Year Posted 2009




Details | Verse |
At peace, of life bereft
in the last grave on the left
where wilting weed and musty bloom
cloud the legend on the tomb.
Words in chiselled grey
bear false witness every day;
acid rain a solemn screen
when every night was Halloween.
Thunderous drums roll near,
lightning jagged, forked and clear;
marching men and daily bread
echo sacrosanct and dead.
In plywood boxes my friends sleep
out of mind and buried deep;
pray for me throughout the fall,
the one who never sleeps at all…

Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005

Details | Lyric |
Dedicated to my Dad who lost his short battle w/ Colon Cancer on June 18,2013

I hate you Cancer
Your vile evil and cruel
You don't care who you hurt
I'll never forget that day
I'll always hate you for it

Your heartless Cancer
You took someone important from me
Someone important from others too
Took people who didn't belong to you
I hate you for it

You disgust me Cancer
You had no right to take him from me
He mattered more than my very own life
I hate you for taking my Daddy
I hate you for taking others too

I hate you with a passion Cancer
You took part of my heart with him
You took part of my soul that day too
I hate you for it
I hate you I hate you I hate you

I hate you with every fiber of my being 
Go back to Hell where you belong
I hate you, others hate you
Your not welcome or wanted here Cancer

I hate you more than his doctor's
I hate you more than God
I hope I get to witness that day
Witness the day you fall
And you will fall Cancer

You're gonna lose the battle one day Cancer
I'm gonna laugh and dance around your grave
You'll finally get what you deserve 
And you'll never be able to inflict your disease on another soul


Sabrina Niday Hansel


______________________________________________________________________
Placed 8th in Poet Destroyer A's  2013 "PINKTOBER" Contest

Please Support a Cure for Colon Cancer & every other type!








Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2013




Details | Free verse |
Temperature dip
urban leaves turned
Autumn, sniffing around
for a place to settle
no Farmer's Market
in San Francisco today.

Copyright © Jen Franks | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
patented genuine leather gloves 
captivating our boyhood heroes
those same gloves flailing about
towards fly's we were supposed to catch

a glowing white ball with red thread
that begged to be rocketed into orbit
we dreamed of such heroics
pleaded to the God's for the power
most times we flailed there too

it was a tiny aspirin
that evaded mammoth sticks
eagle-eyed trembling lads tried and tried
at least three consecutive times
before retreating with lowered heads
and yet we swore we'd return
with vengeance upon our hearts

there were parents, encouraging
some hopelessly, others with zest
each and every ball pitched
held a lifetime of recollection to come
hopes that immortality would strike
inhale, swing....exhale, next

one by one we took our turn
learning life, the struggles, the joys
suckling each moment with precious breath
tomorrow didn't matter, this was the day
contact, wood upon a now scuffed ball
foulball the ump screamed!
a delightful sound
for it meant success
no matter how miniscule
clapping, smiles broad as the horizon
shoulder slaps, that a boy!

proud parents boasted
picnics were planned
even the diamond itself sparkled
it lived for moments such as these
ah the stories held within those fences

Part 2

thirty five years have gone by
our "field of dreams" now a grave site
ironic that coach Lou resides at homeplate
his stone reads "We lent him boys,
He returned young men"
a great tribute to his dedication
and love for the game

the grave yard littered with former players
however the mound lies bare
no hill, nor stone
only my own precious memories
one day, I shall play again.............

Copyright © Bob shank | Year Posted 2006

Details | Acrostic |
Long arms of tender compassion
Oneness of embittered Humanity
Visceral faith was your salvation
Encompassing all vain materialism
Lenitive of the corporal punishment 
Illuminating a hope encrypted in a
Necropolis of suppressed ideas 
Extruding life from deep darkness  
Seeping rain from saturated soil
Sedative of every entombed soul

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
twas a cold and cloudy day
nippy in nature with trees in sway
that time in winter when days were short
the kind of day when a grave digger 
would take a snort
to warm the bones, so to speak
a few more snorts to make it neat
but dig the grave ready for the next day
and the grave digger would earn his pay
it never bothered him that he made a living 
digging graves
sometimes he wondered why people were afraid
it's just a place where dead bodies are laid
as long as people are dying 
there's money to be made
on his way home singing a song
living in a world where nothing was wrong
or so it seemed
but while he was walking'
one of the thorny briers latched
on to one of his shoe latches
and in one step the bow was gone
unknowingly the grave digger
kept moving along, singing his song
like nothing was wrong
unaware that he could slip
never minding that he could trip
the old grave digger singing his song
without a thought that something was wrong
he reached in his pocket
for a pipe that was'nt there
and was sure  that he had droped it
somewhere back there
his search was so intense 
it took him all the way back to the grave
but just before he got there
he steped on his shoe string
there was nothing he could do
falling head long into the grave
where a broken neck was waiting
and also his pipe laid
so we'll end this story like Esop ends his
there is a moral to the story
for all the growing kids
smoking is bad for you

Copyright © The Situation | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |
Alas there is no more confusion,
finally found my last conclusion.
Expect me as if Jesus will return,
from a ghost to a realm of concern.

Your dreams are portals like doors,
welcoming spirits into hasten wars.
Leaving the thoughts without trust,
keeping your fears in much disgust.

And though you sought no consequence,
deeds that confirm a wicked malevolence.
Awaiting in your nightmare of screams,
enjoy what is left amongst your dreams.

Copyright © Eternal Victor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

Poem written near a Cemetery  2 of 2
On 13th February 2012

But nowhere in that cemetery I could find,
Flowers smiling on any Stone, Tomb or grave,
Whatever big may have been,
The status of those, who were buried there, 
With or without any pomp and show.

Some of these yester year stars, 
Were laid here with a simple stone, 
Standing as a symbol of their death, 
Without telling their simple stories and 
And without telling much about their lores, 

I came back again after searching a lot,
On the grave of this noble soul, 
The small flowers were still busy in,
Swinging and dancing, 
On the stone of Sophia Rees. 

Those wild little yellow flowers,
Had called me from a distance,
Perhaps to convey the story, 
Of this unknown noble soul.

I counted those tiny yellow flowers 
They were six only all swinging in the air, 
To find on whose stone they were blooming,
I started reading,
The faint and dim stone lines,
Where the engraved letters had lost their ink,
Wiped away by the passing of time.

But the first three lines, 
Made me to stand on my toes, 
I could read very clearly,
In the clear upper lines it was written, 
“Sophia Rees Owen 31 years old 
left this world on 27th November 1834, 
Leaving her husband and six children. 
She was a sincere friend and 
Truly attached wife and Most devoted mother”.

Something told me silently in my mind, 
Why on this grave only,
The Nature had bloomed,
A bunch of smiling and dancing flowers, 
This unknown lady of yester years 
Was perhaps a noble and kind hearted soul.

May be Sophia was a lover of Nature,
May be a Poet, a Philosopher, a Painter or 
May be she was a wonderful Singer,
Who wanted to sing some beautiful songs,
But before she could have tuned her instruments,
Was called by the God in Heaven. 

What a strange thing it was, 
To come and to watch in that graveyard,
Those little flowers and the grave of Sophia Rees, 
Which I had noticed unknowingly,  
From across the boundary,
While I was passing on the road.

These lines are my homage to that noble soul,
Who is  spreading her smiles even to this day,
As if through these flowers, 
She was singing some of her most dear song.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 13& 14th Feb 2012
“Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen”
“In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother...

Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2012

Details | Rhyme |
Seeking accompany- Zamreen Zarook
 
I kick to wonder what made me to cry,
Am really writing as a fry,
Myself launch to be dry,
This ink will be a victim for my cry.
 
What really went wrong with me all these day,
What made e to forget my last day,
I realized I jumped out of my track yesterday,
So I regret for that, what is called as present today.
 
Happiness have started to wave hands for this sinner,
Sadness have started to move inner,
The faults that I considered as miner,
So far changed as a miner of a winner.
 
My face was a comparison to sunlight,
Where as my routine changed it to moon light,
I wish to get that twilight,
As a sinner I started to search for that enlight.
 
I started to enjoy what is right,
I remade my faults as a kite,
I wished it would fly apart from my  sight,
My system said, you are free from your rubbish weight.
 
It proved that I always should depend on god,
In whatever the variation of my mood,
He is there to clear my victorious road,
So, I started to live according to His code.

Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood. 
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait,  I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath,  such a heavy lump in my throat,  “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think,  my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink. 
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends. 
 I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.

Copyright © James Clark | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |
Poem written near a Cemetery  1 of 2
On 13th February 2012

While moving near the walls of a cemetery, 
I saw the glimpse 
Of a bunch of some tiny wild flowers,
Blooming in the golden Sunlight falling on them, 
They were waving their simile, 
With every gush of wind,
On the monument of a deserted grave.

For me it was a new and exciting experience, 
To enter in that cemetery of eighteenth century,
What had brought me to that spot,
Where those wild flowers were still smiling,
Remains a mystery
Every time, I think and rethink. 

I saw hundreds of monuments and tombs,
After entering in that preserved cemetery, 
Some were telling the story,
Of the grandeurs of its dwellers,
While others were there,
Standing without a crown or a story.

The grave on which, I saw those flowers,
Was not showing an appealing face, 
Age had withered its luster and charms,
And time had left its marks on its face.

Being in the last line of that cemetery 
It was waiting in the long queue,
For some kith and kin of Sophia Ress,
May come some day and  
The face of that noble soul’s grave, 
May once again obtain its lost glory and grace.

There I found those lonely wild tiny flowers,
Still blooming and smiling and dancing,
With every gush of wind,
Telling silently a beautiful story of its dweller,
As if, they were paying their homage,
While remembering her lost songs and images.

In the morning hours of the Autumn,
The tree leaves were falling, 
Everywhere on the ground,
And some were even falling on me,
Either to tell the universal truth, 
Of the inevitable departure of everyone’s one day 
Or perhaps to accompany me, 
In that graveyard of all those,
Who were totally strangers for me.

After watching that grave and 
Appreciating those tiny flowers,
I explored each and every tomb and monuments,
Standing in the memory of those British,
Who had lived a royal life during those days,
When they lived here and ruled my country, 
For a very long time. 

Ravindra 
Kanpur India 18th Feb. 2012  concluded in Part 2



Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen

"Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother.......






Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2012

Details | Blank verse |
When I die,
 I know 
You will not show up in my funeral.
 But
 Whenever you miss me, 
Please take out my written journal.

 When I die,
 Perhaps 
You experience some grief.
 That is why I will leave you 
My poems,
 Perhaps 
They will give you some relieve.

 After me,
 Please keep your smile,
 Please be the same.
 If you ever forget my love,
 Please remember my name.

 I know 
You will not be in my funeral,
 Perhaps 
You will say "who cares."
 But
 In a corner of your room,
 Perhaps 
Quietly
 You will shed some tears.

 Don't feel guilty,
 For the times You hurt me,
 I have already forgave you.
 Please do the same for me,
 For the times 
I have bothered you. 

Whenever you feel down, 
Thinking the life is so tough.
 Don't forget,
 For you,
 My dead heart is still full of love.

 When I die,
 Please 
Don't cry, please be brave.
 I know you will not come to my funeral,
 But, please visit my grave. 

Copyright © Goran Rahim | Year Posted 2012

Details | Haiku |
Forget-me-nots bloom
My darling's epitaph reads
Do you hear the whippoorwill

Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2012

Details | ABC |
People want to commit suicide,
people choose to die over livin life.
Why has it come to be this way?
Why has this life become so meaningless,
that we just want to throw it away?
We become selfish and think our life is so bad,
dont think of others who's lives are worse, But still greatful for what they have.
People take for granted the things they've got,
clothes, food, smokes and shoes, even a roof or a bed,
They dont think of the homeless,
the hungry, not even the cold or the hot.
They just think they want to be dead,
Things happen in our lives that, to us, seem bad.
We dont look for help or trust any "friends"
All because of the past we've had.
Dont be a coward and run away,
Stick it out, Live life,
I know that there's alot of strife,
But stick it through day to day.
People want to commit suicide,
people choose to die over livin life.
Why has it come to be this way?....

Copyright © brandi foote | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |
wisdom
tombed in graveyards
of doubt

© Eugene Harvey

Copyright © Eugene Harvey | Year Posted 2016

Details | Enclosed Rhyme |
A place to sit, to insist the other exist.
Instinct ink; a brief connection to persist the other exist.
A place to relieve myself from this brief connection.
Instinct ink; a recollection of all things beneath.
A place to sit, and the smell at my feet reminds of all the visits paid my grave state.
I insist, a place to exist would be eventually diseased or the others' seat.
I hate myself and everyone else for discussing my health.
I self service the help, first I self service myself heaping portions of self help.
Maybe, above all we, recall that disbelief with humorous forgiveness.
Maybe, a place to sit, to insist the other exist, is the exact form.
Instinct turned ink on walls now speak for all things. 
A place to exist would rejoice in the moments known love could damage my grave state.

Copyright © Jonathan Michael Conlon | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
Send me your crazy 
You’re lazy 
The hallucinogenic hazy
The sick mother ****ers 
Who wanna see you pushing daisies 

Gimme your sinners 
Gimme your saints 
Gimme that Uzi you used to paint over problems 
You claim to never propagate

You got no patience 
No hope 
No way to ****ing cope 
The only skill you offer 
Is slinging the ****ing smoke 

Be it from a barrel or pipe 
Your failure is ****ing ripe 

So whacha gonna do now?

Join me in the grave?
Or live in a cage? 

Either way you’re a slave of rage  
The deeds of yesterday 
Write today’s page 

Is this sinking through the layers of insanity?
Or is it blinded by worthless vanity?

Come tell me your sad tale 
Your miserable story 
Your existence that you fail 

It’s ok that you’re worthless 
It’s ok that you’re hollow 
It’s quite easy to see 
That it’s evil you follow 

From the beginning 
To the present 
You never had a chance 
It was always failure 
That you had to romance 

I don’t blame you in your need 
To feed your greed 
Though I do question your methods 
Upon which you proceed

Do you ever look at the pattern that you follow?
Indeed nothing new 
And quite violently hollow 

Ever wonder if you’re better than trash?
Or is the need for quick satisfaction 
Seem rash?

I have always wondered 
About the need for recognition 

Is it really satisfying?
To recognize one’s self addiction?

Thoughts to contemplate 
Of self worth’s fate

A lifelong pursuit 
Of green paper’s debate

Such a trivial pursuit 
I rate 

Eric (and sometimes not)



 




















Copyright © Eric Nolan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Epic |
The story of the unknown
Has been unravelled
And now the weak, strong and fearless
Have all fled on their heel 
Leaving that blameless child in a shattering state
To fight for his guiltless life
He cried so loud
As the blade of the knife fast approaches
We spit on the grave of our posterities
For telling the hidden stories of our past
To those from the far land
And now they use it as a weapon against us
Our people have all fled our land
The land they once cherished
And fought for with their blood, tears and sweat
Their lives they now carry as golden eggs
Never looking back to dear motherland
The land that once flowed with milk and honey 
But that blameless child in our mud house
Died without knowing the stories of our existence
Dig the grave of our ancestors
Pray their bones come back to life
For they cannot stay in their silence
Pretending all is well with us
They must tell us the hidden stories of our past
Our generation must know the unmodified
Stories of our existence and dwelling
Wake up forefathers of our land
You have slept too long
Wake up and tell us why you sold our hoes and cutlasses
And now our farmlands have lost all its nutrients
Leaving our people hungry
Wake up and tell us why you took cola nut and a bottle of schnapp 
And gave our young gorgeous women into slavery
Wake up and tell us why we now drink from the cup
Instead of the calabash
We have too long stayed in exile
Now is time to return to the home of the forgotten soul
Play the frontonfrom drum
Tune the xylophone 
Jingle the maracas 
Tell the tree fellers to play the flutes
For the sweet melodies our past 
Must welcome us back to the deserted home
Of the forgotten soul
Home is where we belong
For we have long stayed in that far land
Wake up spirits of our ancestors
Wake up posterities of our past
Wake up from your perennial sleep
You have slept in silence for too long.

Copyright © Nii-Ayi Solomon | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
I've allowed that burning boat to float off without me
Rarely ever thinking about dissipating the flames, 
As it is hardly worth the time and effort. 
In Truth, 
There wasn't much of a future with that situation.
No matter the attempts
No matter the appeal
It was all for naught
The only thing I worry about now
Is looking back at the Flames
And hoping I am not entranced
By their Dancing Light

Copyright © Epi C. A Phoenix Writer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |
You regret your foolish disclosure, as you confessed to be a cold hearted lover for she was 
lost of hope n’ sacrificed herself from this crest for her love for you consumed her totally, 
though her broken heart, in the care of the angels choir, now sings reforged in the fires of  
immortality…
You lived your life in the garments of a scar around your heart, covered in bark, thrombosed 
to the love of another, it now cries in virtue n’ chastity from the sentient tree that consumed 
your ashes n’ dust in the grave at the top of the crest by the sea…

I give to you Poet my blessing, so you can relinquish your guilt n’ pain of love’s abandoning 
from the bed of blame you made of your grave, for your quill is at peace till your 
homecoming into this world, my sweet poet come back to me…
For time was your crest from this day you have leapt, you are forgiven my love so rise, let 
go your purgatory n’ perhaps one day we will meet once again as your soul escapes the 
gravity of captivity, now owlish n’ wise let it fly to our destiny…

Though not a word is spoken in these moments of conjuration from a lover long gone in an 
age of castles n’ quests by the sea, it stormed all night n’ I remained by your grave side till 
sunrise n’ the flame in your eyes became the Immortal’s fire to reforge a tarnished heart, 
for your tortured soul now understands n’ through the flames your mind will follow…
Now I see the picture you have painted in the illusion of the rainbow n’ I sense the birth of 
humility n’ grace as the sun breaks through the storm clouds, for your poem of remorse 
finally rests n’ you my love are reborn with angel wings to ride mother earth’s breath…

Copyright © Lilt Of Orpheus | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Everybody was horrified of Paul's scruffy looks
with dirt and mud smeared all over his wrinkled face,
and his long nose with dark spots on its tip;
and a grave digger matched that image,
but he was the nicest person on planet earth:
hard-working, estimable, amicable and honest.
After the day's work was done, Paul stared
at the empty lots and whispered to himself,
" Soon I'll be in one of them...I feel it coming! "
One unlucky afternoon he was standing
on the edge of a newly dug-up grave and accidently
slipped and fell into the twenty-feet excavation;
no screams for help were heard...he was dead!
That same afternoon, there was a burial
and as the corpse's coffin was lowered into the grave,
Father Michael spotted a body lying on the bottom of it,
and it resembled that of Paul....suddenly police 
were notified and minutes later a fire truck arrived
to the dreary scene. Then two young firefighters
lowered themselves into the pitch-dark grave by holding
onto sturdy ropes, and without much effort, 
they pulled his bruised and broken body:
he was pronounced dead at two-thirty.
Paul had a near-death experience, one of the most
incredible ones: he visited heaven, the place of bliss!
And as he climbed the gold stairway, he heard many voices
of those he knew in the previous life...they chanted glorifying God,
who was seated on an ivory throne surrounded by Archangels,
Saints and the Prophets whom he remembered from his Bible readings.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
Elephant Grave Yard(OLd Eagle Feather) 
Elephants do it or it seems they used two. 
Made a place to leave they bones and went two there place 
in great droves or herds i think they are called. 
Old Eagle Feather was watching the women by the fire one day. 
They were chewing jerky to make it soft for meat to eat. 
Softening the jerky for little mouths to chew. 
Old Feather he is now been called got up and off he goes. 
Took up two stones of suprising weight, 
and carried them toward the elephant grave yard. 
I am going to my fate.He never shed a tear. 
I have done it all my time is gone.Let me make no haste. 
NO more wasted time in stories bye the fire. 
I am just in time. 
I see the elephants again, 
they are all in line waiting to get in. 
To my heaven. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2006

Details | I do not know? |
Grave of the Dead
By Kalyani Rajalingham

Like a rose in the mire, bereft of courage to spare,
Let men bemoan their inhumanly ways,
Let them be victims of their proper malice,
For gold has the power to crush mighty pillars,
And in the hands of greed’s bloody ways,
Lets grass grow over graves of follies past,
To entomb the privilege of unyielding remorse,
Why, the world’s a beautiful persecution,
None may defy its moated dominion,
But the raging fire always sheds a drop of water,
To let the pillars built by sin,
Fall by virtue amongst deepest furrow.

Copyright © Kalyani Rajalingham | Year Posted 2007

Details | I do not know? |
Some one out there please help me.
This is not real for I am only sixteen this can’t be.
The nightmare began on a beautiful summer day.
I pleaded and begged until I got my way.
A white lie was told.
Helping friends move a truck to unload.
They gave me the ground rules.
I walked away thinking they were the fools.
Riding around in the car as a passenger feeling so proud.
We were all talking, laughing and the music playing so loud.
Some of us were smoking and drinking just a few.
Everyone started acting goofy as teenagers do.
All of once the crash happened before we knew.
There were screams heard, people and objects flew.
Everything is dark I can’t see.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t breathe
Their words echoes, the doctors said I died.
My loved ones I heard them all cry.
It was just a little white lie, to have a little bit of fun you know.
Everything is pitch black, where did everyone go?
Please I beg of you help me make this nightmare end.
Forgive me it was a lie to spend time with friends.
Wait, wait don’t leave me.
I am not dead; I am only sixteen this can’t be.

Copyright © Sandra Larkins | Year Posted 2006