• death life writing hope poetry poem spilled ink free verse blank verse spilled thoughts spilled words sunflowury •

My older brother received a call at two pm on a Thursday,
That his roommate from college
And best friend from high school;
Overdosed and died,
Last Wednesday night.

My brother is 25 years old.
He missed three days of work, sat at home in the dark,
And cried for the first time in six months.
This is not poetry.

My father is very, very sick.
He sleeps for seven hours,
To build up a half hour of strength,
Just so he can pick me up from school.
He hasn’t been well in over a year.
And still,
He prays every night, “Thank you God, for making this happen to me, and not my children.”

I am swallowed in fear,
That soon enough, he will go to bed,
And never wake up.
This is not poetry.

There are thousands of people,
fighting cancer,
and war,
and death,
just to have one more day,
In hopes that it will get better.

And still,
You people glorify sadness,
and long for your death,
because apparently life,
is just too much of a burden.
Wake up, your ignorance is sickening.
Your life is thousands of times more beautiful,
Than your death will be.


report
217241 notes / 4 years 11 months ago
My older brother received a call at two pm on a Thursday, That his roommate from college And best friend from high school; Overdosed and die...
You are a lighter, and I am a cigarette; harmless until we intervene, fatal when we do.
Someday, you will find someone, who won’t sigh at words like commitment, and whose jaw won’t clench, when you ask them to stay. ...
He drank coffee and she drank tea, but when he asked her what she wanted to drink she said coffee because in a way she’d thought he’d be ple...
She’s the type of person to look you right in the eye when she lies, but not one to look you right in the eye when her heart is involv...
I’m not one to hold hands, but baby when you told me you wanted to die, I held your hand so tight that the bones in my wrist molded in...
12 Things you should do if you love someone  1. Write them poetry even if it’s shitty. I don’t care if it’s fucking nonse...
More than anything, my hope for you, is that you still let things move you in the way when you were two years old and you saw a little...
I would not survive you a second time.
When you left me, it was so hard for me to accept it that I began dreaming of you. I dreamt of you coming back to me. That is one of the har...
I never liked my name, until I heard you say it with nothing but love in your voice.
If you wrote about me, what would you say?