Dead Poems - Poems about Dead

I am dead to many, a few are dead to me. I am forgotten by girls in green silk sarongs yet they still pour me out like tea. The dead are drunk on themselves, as I am. I throw up a timeworn rope of thought they haul me up just enough for me to see the moon caught in a teacup, then I allow them, let them...

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We will not say that she is dead. We have never said that she is dead. We will never say that she is dead. We’ll say she’s in heaven We will say she passed away We tell the children she went to God’s house And became an angel on the way. We say she’s gone We say she died But none...

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Leukemia boys and Leukemia girls wave in hospital volunteers, as the angels wave them away. What is love? Beyond an overpriced ambulance ride, and an unnecessary hospital stay? The most beautiful things: summer sweat, and Rome after rain. Inside, a child draws a yellow sun with trembling fingers. The IV, taped down like it’s trying to hold him there. Forced positivity. A heart full of apathy. I see that same world you try to see with substance sober, and I’ll be the first to...

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I close my eyes and I breathe no more No more standing at deaths0 door No more struggling just to survive No more machines to keep me alive No more visits from people I don't know No more pity will they have to show No more living in constant pain No more injections ever again No more crying when...

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I hate my neighbour and want to kill them. I imagine their car being squashed by trucks like jam sandwiches. Red crusts. I daydream that their staircase collapses like factories ready for demolition. I fantasise they swallow glass instead of coffee and bleach in place of milk. I conjure images of their flesh peeling like skin from a potato....

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The seeds of war are planted in the soil of greed within the garden of an unholy trinity. Children of the poor sent off to war to weave the satin feathers of a murder of political crows. The war machine is a stomping beast spitting out bones vomiting over the centuries. The children of the poor taking their last ride to the heart of...

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i text dead people for advice. not because they answer— they don’t— but because they never interrupt. i tell my grandfather about the boy who left mid-winter and how my ribcage still clicks shut like a locket when someone new gets close. he was buried in silk, but i like to imagine he’d wear combat boots now and tell me to run before love swallowed me whole. i ask...

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I pray to the god of everlasting remorse. I rip out my heart to throw on the altar of dead ends. May I be delivered from the sinful haters, To re-establish ties with my benevolent friends....

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David was advised by his kin the sling's the thing if you want to win tho' small as he was without fear he did let fly and rocked Goliath's world right between the eyes before he had time to come near or even throw his spear alone from afar David did fling and with a single stone's throw he let go one shot to the head and brought the...

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Built in the middle of Nowhere, A gate of turquoise, very rare, A sculptor carved a figurehead, The gate was built to guard the dead. It's best to come on full-moon night, for the dead don't care for sunlight. GHOSTLY music is often heard, And one unidentified word. It's said, on a September date, GROANING is heard near the big gate. GRIEF-STRICKEN singing to the...

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Three men. Three shadows with human faces, Hands like chains, Voices coated in liquor and cologne — That same cologne still snakes through my chest, Claws at my lungs every time I smell it. They didn’t need chains — They used hands, words, filth. And God? Stood there. Silent. Watched them rip my clothes, Rip the light from my chest, While I begged the sky for mercy That...

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Dig...black soil,stone. earth worms wiggle, decayed bones Dig... scatter seeds there, sprouting, searching sun and air Dig ...to hide our dead, six feet under, body bed Dig...shovel and spade, flowers grow from planted pain Dig...out of this hole, skin so pale and Icy cold Dig...deep down inside, reveal secrets graveyards hide...

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Like the dead in a grave lays my buried desires in my heart stays, like the waters in a frozen lagoon unable to break out of my cocoon. ...

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Forever is a giant ground, Where buried roots live in hope. Though, dead in earth and weak beyond The realistic of growth scientifically. Unless been uprooted and cast in fire, It remains a new seed to sprout new desires. Studies often wonder how each get to cope-- The threat of call, hope yield basically. But men are death bound; For...

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if it were up to me i wouldn't be here. i would have left a long time ago. but others expect things of me. things that i have to do. and so i do them. and i'm not dead yet. from the minute we are born, we are treated like clay. carefully handled, molded by the hands of each person we come in contact with. so i'm sorry...

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