Die Poems - Poems about Die

if i die before i awake do not cry as am at heavens gate, looking at you all down below, showing you my love will always flow, if you need me just call my name, believe am here and never in vain, i will be beside you by your side, even tho you think i died, my spirt is close and warm, i...

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I want to die— not in screams, not in blood, but in a quiet room where no one waits for me. I think of suicide like a lullaby I hum alone, a final note to silence the noise in my head that never rests. But I'm scared. I'm afraid of the rope, afraid of the pills, afraid of the fall— not just the pain, but the fact that I...

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I lost my beautiful dog today I lost my dearest friend She took with her a piece of my heart I’ll never feel again I know you’ll say there will come a day when your heart is filled with another but you didn’t know my Chuli girl A dog unlike any other I’ve never cried or felt...

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Lo, do I grasp with my wretched fingers, Onto where my heart it still lingers, Tendrils hold as though a parasite, With it's life causes my blight, Even withered it does not die, For its mother hears its cry, Nurturing back to good health, Yet it is I who have dealth, Suttle thoughts fuel the proliferation, Making death its instrumentation, Rest from it comes with...

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Blasphemy, truly— To treat a poem like lab equipment. Smearing souls on damp napkins, scribbling overwrought sorrows. We are sacred, young lady. Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and occasionally, prophets. Not therapy couches for freshly wrecked teens. Yet here you are— dismantling verses with the rollerball pen from middle school and deliberately gothic tragedies. “I’m figuring it out as I go.” The audacity. But fine, if you’d rather, learn...

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She’s at it again. Wasting my ink staging yet another death. I draft her crimson melodramas with third-hand metaphors as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic laced with rust and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume. I thread her June into forced sonnets (poor things), before her gin drowned the meter in proofed regret. Even a pen gets impatient. Sometimes she pauses, as though it might save her— I...

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A night in fragments— Breath reeked mildewed regrets, and static collided behind my eyes. I tasted shattered neon, sipping cheap club gin. Even alcohol can’t silence the poet— I mock her perfumed clichés, but still draft her eulogy in thrifted elegance. “I hate writing blind,” I muttered as gin bled through crooked verses— March 14th, a drunk poet sighed— Her pen staged the week’s second...

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These days I often find myself lying on my pristine rock, hard bed thinking about why the world would ever care about someone like me. I wonder how my thoughts ever drifted this far. Maybe social media? Or my own self-conceit, brimming with forbidden passions even van Gogh or Picasso couldn't imagine. Yet, I only say that because I can't...

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If I refuse to die—what can death do? It waits beyond the orchard gate, While lilacs lean with scent and hue And robins sing of love and fate. I’ve knelt in grasses starred with dew, Heard twilight’s hush in tender trees, My breath was shaped by skies of blue, My thoughts by wind and dreaming seas. Death may come with its quiet tread, A...

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For shining so bright, you burn out and die; for soaring too close to the sun, you fall to the hard earth below and crash: “Too high,” judge the gods; so, as lesson to us all, you're chastened for your lofty, prideful flight. Like Icarus,...

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You who worship yourself, listen carefully. I won’t shout. I don’t have to. Truth cuts deeper when it’s whispered. You raise your hands high, but not to the God who made you. You worship the mirror. You exalt dust. You crown yourself king over a kingdom made of ashes. You pray, but only for yourself. You sing, but only about yourself. You preach, but only to glorify...

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Social Media influencers on the racist right said us Jews control radio and TV That we rot the roots of morality’s tree, The implication is clear; there’s no society free. One TV personality invited a guy who spouted reasons for Hitler's views As the real deal, I wonder why So much dumping on the Jews They talk of the 'noticing' -...

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I am 15 years old. They say my mind is scattered stars, too many, too bright, too far apart. A sky that sparkles wildly, never settling into constellations. I try. God, I try. To sit still in a room that moves faster than me, to focus while my thoughts bounce like marbles down cathedral halls. The world whispers lazy while I carry lightning in my...

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We walk with the information of quasars and the discernment of protoplasm. Each day we live and die, each day our tears run dry. Information is the rubble, the clutter of our civil war. Reality becomes disposable when fact and fevered fiction are made coequals, when the rampancy of lies massacres the truth. Each day we live and die,...

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We live and die completely In the material world It would be rather fiddly To emulate a Phoenix bird Our ashes can’t be bothered Inside their marble urns No point in fire hazard Cause we’re already burned It sounds flat simplistic Therefore it’s dull, I know I’d love to be a mystic To make of life a show I’d love to talk with God About my perspective...

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