Died Poems - Poems about Died

She died in a body she hated Her last memory was watching herself get assassinated How she died isolated Surrounded by a see of white faces Who stood there being witnesses To something that would be talked about across the ages Her blood had painted the pavement The cop stood there admiring his painting She died in a body...

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When the music died It turned into police sirens When the music died It was like playing musical statues Without the music And forever stuck in silence When the music died It gave space for the gunshots And the screams that came after it When the music died The soul died too When the music died The world stood...

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It was not the blade, not the scream, not the thousand prayers swallowed before morning came. It was the moment your silence blinked and I saw myself inside it. Not you. Only my echo dressed in your name. I knelt inside your chest, curled beside the last warm place you left for me, before the fire went out. You called it love. I called it extinction. Still, I touched your hand like...

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My gosh! Oh how can it be That Jesus suffered and died for me? God the Father sent His only Son Once on the cross the suffering begun Jesus lifted His eyes to the sky In His heart He asked the Father why No answer came, He hadn't a clue When the answer did come Jesus then felt brand new For all were saved...

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The Day the Country Died November 22, 1963 three pm e.s.t fifth grade pa speaker clicks on “today, at one pm c.s.t President Kennedy shot he is dead” our young substitute teacher gasps then starts to cry we are silent school is dismissed early buses home, no one speaks our country has changed ...

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You were gone before we noticed your light, Glittering golden in the night skies. Your brilliance could not stir our sight, Yet you're not forgotten come sunrise. Glittering golden in the night skies, Illuminating with an already dead glow. Yet you're not forgotten come sunrise— Only discovered once you let go. Illuminating with an already dead glow, You still make an impact after all...

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The flowers died on Monday The ones that’s showed up at my door I say that I love you “I’ll always love you more” We sit and watch my favorite show “You spoiled it, I already know” We say goodnight and go to bed “Without you I’m filled with dread” We wake up and go to work “When I come home I’ll...

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The simple, spontaneous man died he died suffering, but happy as he always was; he knew the spiritual value of "putting more water on the beans" He knew how to forgive and ask for forgiveness... He knew how to gather and welcome those in need of bread and light! good friend, amigo, hermano, fratello GOD IS WITH YOU !...

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daddy died alone in his home ashtrays with cigarette butts completely hoarded his deathbed the smell of smoke almost immediately made my eyes turn red i regret the 15 years since i last saw him however i choose not to trip daddy died alone in his home i have a quiet conversation with him in the wee hours of the morning i...

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She was a pariah In her own family Two angry parents Said “I wish you had died” She was two But she got the message They were angry Because her surgery cost them money...

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After the last note of the concerto, after the thunderous applause, after the presentation flowers, after the congratulations of her admirers behind the curtain, she walks still smiling quickly to her dressing room where alone she sheds bitter tears for the missed notes and that too muddled passage where her music fell short of the perfection she had rehearsed in her head. The conductor knocks gently at her...

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I am not a died poet, Don't see me quit, I have a lot to do, which keeps me far to write, But I haven't stop writing, poems still loading in my hurt, Not only in hurt, poems come even at night. So! My readers, give me your time, Sorry for my disappear, for not publish my rhymes, Soon...

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When you left, I was in pain. When you left, I was in sorrow. Though I was still smiling, I was still laughing, and having fun. That was only outside. Because on the inside, that’s where I died, and I was never revived....

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I used to slit my arms open like I was peeling fruit—careful, slow, watching the skin give way like wet paper. The box cutter blade was dull, sticky from God knows what—maybe dried glue, maybe someone else’s blood—but it still did the job. I’d carve so deep the fat would bloom up like egg whites...

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The flowers died on Monday, The ones that lay next to her bed They pulled the plug on Monday, The roses shrivelled up and dead....

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