Dead On(A) Poems - Poems about Dead On(A)

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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In the eyes of society, the poet is dead, and the only one unaware is the poet himself, Because his vanity binds him to verses like an invisible thread, a thread of destiny, He writes his words on the sky of memories, unaware that they are merely shadows, Shadows of a changed reality, where poetry no longer sings...

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When appears the winged goddess Nix to cast her noctilucent spell on every creature of the night, in a sudden hush, fall on the land a sweet shield of calm and timelessness. AP: Honorable Mention 2025...

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After "the ritual" by Olivia Gatwood everything about this song is red, your wallet is brown, the brown a burgundy and the burgundy’s chalice has gold to dazzle rubies, carnelian, sard precious, semi-precious, the same- all the same, feel the same when you hold the cup to livid lips and send them on their merry way bumping into the ugly ridges of a throat lodged with stingy...

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When under the gun how can one not be outdone by nepotism or overcome by favouritism altho' the norm they're no more than a form of terrorism a nebulous opponent none can fight on the human landscape naught but a blight from which we can't escape or run any self-respecting someone would shun and as for me you see I was obviously yet definitely born in the...

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Dead, Dead. Decay and rotten flesh, melting beneath the scorching sun. Worms, maggots, and flies- a parade in time with the vulture's drum. Teasing, tearing, ripping this way and that, dashing, splashing like an artist painting madness. Bumblebee, whisper to me: Am I dead...or just asleep in the scariest dream? No... I can't be dead. I refuse to be dethroned. Oh death, you have no...

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