Dead(P) Poems - Poems about Dead(P)

'Follow your dream' easier said than done as the girl of my dreams for me she is the only one and yet for her I don't exist she sees through me sad to say don't have what (it) takes her fancy won't even look my way as ships which pass in the night our two hearts will never meet I find mine's a dead-end dream on...

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As fate will play its role And legend will tell For super stardom and limelight The greatest have fell The Silver Screen, fortune and fame Rock-n-roll will never die From Janis to Jim Bonham to Bon They given us so much Elvis to Lennon Jimmi and Randy They had the touch Let's not forget Stevie and Kurt Take a walk down that well beaten path You're all still...

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Roses are red (But not this one) My lust for you is dead...

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In the dead of night, under celestial vaults of deep silence, The shadow of my soul intertwines with longing, In a dance of stars, spirals of time and dreaming, I hear my heart beating in rhythms of cosmic nostalgia. Through the dark forests of the mind, I wander aimlessly, On unseen paths, seeking meanings hidden beneath veils, In a world of...

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Dour-faced servants, thunderbolts, towering bad days. Will or reason? Time, truth, dolts! Dynamite dismays! Suffering, you heard the man! Damn you, let us in! Hell and Heaven, what's the plan? Span, O light of Sin! Wilting flowers on the beach? Autumn, thou art here. Must be something out of reach! Sour and severe! Cannibals, thy holocaust! Wicked is the past! Radar love...

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"My eyes were never shut that night, As I pulled my soul in the concept of Magnetic field, I looked through the reality of poets, It can be anyone- an engineer, an artist or a man with a broken heart, since hearts are meant to broke so a soul can join them in pieces again, Though Love and Sorrow."...

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Some are less concerned it seems to me with the killing of the living (whose taxes pay each U.S. Supreme Court employee) than that of the unborn or perhaps I should be more forgiving but when someone says, 'Guns don't kill people, people do,' (it drives me to vexation) as I've never heard someone died of a drive-by strangulation (Have you?) ...

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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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