Wednesday, 4 September 2013

Stand at my grave and weep

"Do not stand at my grave and weep,   
I am not there; I do not sleep.
                    I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
                    I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
                    When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry, 
I am not there; I did not die."

--Mary Elizabeth Frye. 

Tuesday, 3 September 2013


Is stabbing myself in the throat a poetic way to die?
Is drowning in a barrel of wine a poetic way to die?
Is having a bullet barricade through my skull a poetic way to die?
What is a poetic death, anyway?
Isn’t the fact that just the heart falls, but the rest of the body follows poetic enough?
Isn’t the fact that my lungs ran out of air to breathe poetic enough?
My heart and lungs drove all the words I had to left to say away,

Isn’t that poetic enough? 

--Written by yours truly, XOXO.