25 posts
  • raman_writes 24w


    बेज़ार ख़्याल को हमेशा दफ़न कर देना चाहिए ।

    साजिशों से मिलकर वो खूबसूरत नहीं बनता ।।


  • ndichuu 45w


    Streets of blood sucked by mud.
    Fear the echoes of pain because,
    Near the forceful death has come.
    Hear the scream, hear the slash,
    Eyes open, the machete is bloody!

    Feel the unspoken words from the lips inseparable.
    Hear the unsaid pain from the chest unopened.
    Taste the bitter food of being bereft of a loved one.
    Wear the itching shoes of justice not being served.

    Deathly footsteps come our way.
    Hope in hearts has fled away.
    Thighs against chest all we sit.
    Tears on cheeks now tell the tale.
    Hear the scream, hear the slash.
    Eyes open, the machete is bloody!

    Feel the unspoken words from the lips inseparable.
    Hear the unsaid pain from the chest unopened.
    Taste the bitter food of being bereft of a loved one.
    Wear the itching shoes of justice not being served.

    On the mattress named 'Six-feet-under' he rests.
    I bet he's tired for his days had been long.
    Flowers with sweet scents we throw down his bedroom.
    To sweeten the dreams he'll get in his bed of wood.
    The window we close, the folding door we put in place.
    We hear another scream, we hear another slash.
    Eyes over shoulders, another machete is bloody!

    Feel the unspoken words from the lips inseparable.
    Hear the unsaid pain from the chest unopened.
    Taste the bitter food of being bereft of a loved one
    Wear the itching shoes of justice not being served.



  • thedriftingpoet 46w


    Come, let's bury them,
    heart and soul
    body and whole,
    Come, let's celebrate their death
    seeking glory in pain,
    Let's rejoice in the carnage
    that we leave behind,
    and let the anger age
    to love and innocence blind.
    Let us dance in the flames
    that burnt their wills,
    and hold pride in their names
    as false hope instills.
    Come let's dig the graves
    as we weep and bend,
    and then fall back to our ways
    as we play pretend.

  • lovesmessenger 48w

    Sometimes we have to bury a love for us to move on. It can haunt us for awhile but its memory will become wisdom. For what is buried is a reminder of what was but it's never a image of what could be. So bury it and grieve it but don't dwell in it. For a new love will come and it'll be everlasting. Never leaving your side.

  • raghavendran 67w

    The Dead and the Live

    The Dead and the Live

                The Dead and the Live

    My niece with a face solemn and grave
    Warned me, “ Don’t you try to be brave,
    Walk not through the burial ground
    From where I often hear some weird sound”,

    Now I often have to boldly cross,
    Walk between the graves and pass
    To reach the house of my niece,
    Which act doesn’t give her peace;

    “After dusk, it’s dangerous to walk,
    For a spirit or a ghost may stalk,
    People have seen shadows at dusk,
    So, please don’t take any risk”

    Whenever I visited her house,
    It was her pet grouse,
    She believed what her neighbours said
    That at night walk the dead;

    Soon such warnings grew more,
    She repeated it like folklore,
    I tried to reason with her,
    She trusted the wisdom of her neighbour;

    Then I told her one fine day,
    “The dead are dead, they don’t attack or slay,
    But the ones that sleep on the grave,
    From them, I have myself to save,

    The dead ones lie buried deep,
    They can’t from the grave leap,
    But the live ones that sleep
    On the grave slowly creep

    And the one who walks at night
    Faces the prospect of a deadly fight,
    So I’m not scared of the dead
    But the live, dangerous biped;

    My cousin looked daggers at me,
    Her face was a sight to see,
    She was not at all amused,
    But I left her in a state bemused.

    Raghav R

  • kavikaviyan 98w

    #கவிகாவியன் #காதல் #காவியம் #கல்லறை #burial #rp #kavikaviyan #heart #nature #love #life #inspiration #poetry #diary #thoughts #friendship #travel

    Read More

    கல்லறை காவியம்

    நீ என் உயிர் உண்டு உதிர்த்த..
    இதயத்தின் உதிரத்தால்
    எழுதுகிறேன் என்...
    கல்லறை காவியத்தை

    ©rp கவி காவியன்

  • guafevc 113w


    All these dudes and my mom, they be gathering.
    She left us all in the car, she be straight trippin.
    I'm 4 years old in the car she in the house. Next thing we hear is straight moaning.
    I didn't know, but now I know she was she was straight running and training.

    I'm looking back on these memories from when I was five years old.
    I don't remember much, as I'm older at twenty-five.
    She ran a train and left me and my baby sis in a car.
    How can she say she a mom but actions say she a straight nothing now.

    Now before you think this poem is straight dissing.
    I'm just airing out my closet and seeing what's missing.
    Just going down memory lane, I know she straight be tripping.
    She a pill popper, I'm an alcoholic, pa does meth, we all be baking.

    I'm looking back on these memories from when I was five years old.
    I don't remember much, as I'm older at twenty-five.
    She ran a train and left me and my baby sis in a car.
    How can she say she a mom but actions say she a straight nothing now.

    The only time we come together for a gathering is if someone is buried.
    Memories, show she straight up abandoned me, as if I was already buried.
    She buried pa, until I was nineteen and found he was living.
    The only time we gather round is if someone is getting buried.
    So hello ma, hello pa, we gathering for y'all burial.

    I'm looking back on these memories from when I was five years old.
    I don't remember much, as I'm older at twenty-five.
    She ran a train and left me and my baby sis in a car.
    How can she say she a mom but actions say she a straight nothing now.

    A funeral we straight gathering.

  • almashideaway 115w

    Burial of Hope

    Today alone,
    he buries the hope,
    that he has been nurturing inside his heart.
    A lonely hope,
    now lies on the ground,
    buried by shaky hands and a troubled mind.
    On the same park,
    where once love was professed,
    he cries the loss that no one would have guessed.
    Love have been buried while still alive,
    lady death dressed in white,
    arrived arm in arm with another man.
    While their love have been blessed,
    his pain heaven’t lessened,
    it’s just cutting him from the inside.
    He is defeated,
    without strength,
    all the love seems now a pretence,
    made for the week believe that they still can fight...

  • sagarsr 115w

    क़ब्रगाह (the Burial)

    माना मेरे शेर गुज़रे ज़माने सा हैं
    ये वो नया है जो पुराने सा हैं������
    Original content
    Sagar SR
    Rights reserved ®

    .Image Source --Google

    #kabragaah #humsafar #burial #phool #zameen #saanse #gazal #sher #shayari #haqikat #qismat #nazme #meerakee #jazbaat #diarydilki777

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    मेरे और उसके घर के रास्ते जहाँ पर मिलते थे
    उस मोड़ पर अब वो किसी और से मिल रहा हैं

    मेरे बागीचे अब मुझे क़ब्रगाह से लगते है
    उनके बाग़ मे अब कोई नया फूल खिल रहा है

    ©Sagar SR

  • yashvibansal 117w


    I buried my past in a coffin,
    But alas,the spirit of memories escaped!!

    Society buried humanity in a coffin
    But someone's conscience prevailed.

    Society buried her confidence in a coffin,
    Due to the break of prejudice's grave.

    Torture has a coffin,
    But so has peace!!

  • hetal_gohel 132w

    इन आखों के आँसुओ में दफ़न हो गई वो कहानी जो कभी हमारी हुआ करती थी ।

  • 21st_century_phoenix 137w

    Moonwalker Curse.

    I will Pay for 6 Members to Carry My Coffin...
    Family, Friends, Love, Etc ...
    Can Strike me out of their Baggage.
    I'm not Comfortable with Formality.
    We were Informal.

    Thank You.


  • tadederhbi 154w

    Final Trial

    Probably, one day
    Limp they shall find my body
    Hands dropped down
    Eyes wide opened, doleful
    Mouth agape
    And a few tear marks down my cheeks.
    Maybe with a slit wrist
    Or perhaps drowned in a tub
    But most likely an overdose on aspirin
    Then, maybe
    They'd regret all they did to me
    And every harsh word
    They pronounced my way.

    Oreoluwa Deborah Oguntade

  • regal_vee 155w

    In the Sky

    When we leave this earth,
    Our bodies laid to rest,
    We shall begin our new chapter,
    In a castle in the sky.


  • ellspressions 158w

    Love & Death

    Loving after hurt can feel like living after death.
    You bury what's gone, and then wait for the next.

  • aabshaar 172w


    सब्र से कब्र तक
    है जिंदगी सबकी चलती यहां,
    सब निकलते मंजिल को अपनी,
    कोई बना लेता है अपने मुकाम यहां,
    तो कई ख्वाहिशें है मरती यहां।

    Sabr se kabr tak,
    Hai zindagi sabki chalti yahaan
    Sab nikalte manzil ko apni,
    Koi banaa letaa hai mukaam yahaan
    To kayi khwaahaishein hai marti yahaan.


  • shivadootimandal 177w


    Shifted to a new place,
    remote from where I had buried her alive.
    Still I hear her screams every night.


  • khushi_pal 180w


    Sometimes I feel buried
    Underneath the ground deeply
    Hoping someone to save me
    Bring me out of that darkness
    That suffocates my soul
    But then I realise
    I can be buried once again
    If my soul's saved today
    There might get be another day
    When I am buried back there
    And if I stay here
    I been belong to this darkness
    My last hope of being saved
    Drowns just like the way
    I bury myself deeper and deeper in the dark

  • mkandres 189w

    Burial Plot

    Being the daughter of a real estate mogul sure had perks. As I pumped gasoline into my shiny red sports car I grinned with glee. Daddy had made some lucrative investments recently and they thank the Lord above, trickled down to me. I was fortunate to reap those benefits. Or, perhaps, deserving was a better word.

    Placing my stiletto heel on the back bumper, a groan escaped my delicate white throat. "Damn, run," I had complained. My sheer black stockings were ruined. Catching a glimpse of myself in the vehicle's rear view mirror, I tossed my long blonde hair to the side and admired my porcelain-doll features. I was gorgeous. The boys at Bridge Academy were going to love me, but I was looking for a man, not a child.

    "Oh, baby," I heard him exclaim. "Look at her." The long, low whistle that I had grown accustomed to quickly followed.

    "Mmmm, let's go check out the goods," another male voice had replied with a not-so-suttle guttural laugh.

    I had grinned, giddy from the attention, enjoying the playful turn on.

    Replacing the gas nozzle into its receptacle, I turned to find two older men, much older compared to my seventeen years, rushing toward me. Looking back, I'm not quite sure how or why I thought they were older, just women's intuition, I suppose.

    They were moving fast. Much too fast. Both were wearing black clothing; pants, long-sleeved shirts and ski masks.

    Ski masks? In August? In Texas?

    "What in the world?" I remembered screaming vividly as one of the men hit me upside my left temple with his tightly-balled paw of a hand.

    "Sweet Daddy will pay what he owes when he finds out we have his little girl," the second man's lisping spittle landed across my tight cheekbones as the parking lot shimmered, swayed and went dark.


    Stifling heat. I could feel my skin prickle, almost squeezing my insides as a boa constrictor would squeeze its prey. Perspiration poured down my face, neck and chest. I couldn't see it. I just knew. I couldn't see a thing. Nothing. Pitch black enveloped me; threatening to take over my mind, heart and soul. The aching throb in my temple was becoming louder and louder, filling the obviously small space in which I lay.

    Shaking my head slightly from side to side, I tried to clear my foggy brain and thoughts. What had those men done to me? Why? Why me? Every fiber of my being told me this was no random act of violence.

    Neck muscles straining, I lifted my shoulders and head just a fraction of an inch. My nose touched the top of my enclosed Hell. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I began to scrape and scratch. Pain radiated down both wrists and traveled through to my elbows as three long fingernails tore off into the quick. I could feel tiny splinters embedding themselves into the fleshy parts of my hands, like a rabid dog ripping me apart.

    Tears rolled. I knew I must look hideous, mascara staining my pretty face. Oh what a sight to behold!

    I needed light so I could see myself. I was expected at Bridge Academy in the morning.

    My stomach began to growl. How long since I had eaten? How long had I been here? Short puffs of breath came faster and faster. The air seemed thick; rancid.

    I tried to slow my breathing; think rationally. My mother had always been good at that, thinking rationally. It had never been my strong suit, nor Daddy's. We had been lost without her after she died. Lost, until Daddy had become a financial success.

    Mother's patient, yet sweet urgings made Daddy the man he was today, in my opinion. Whenever Daddy had something on his mind, he would run it by her. If she felt his latest project had merit, she would say, 'Do or die.' I laughed aloud now at that expression but felt Mother's sweet urgings from the grave. My grave.

    I still needed some source of light. I tried to straighten my legs a bit to kick out the end of the wooden box but all attempts failed. My body was becoming weaker, the air more sparse.

    I coughed, my chest heaving with spasms. God, I could go for a cigarette right about now! Wait! I am so glad I never gave up smoking! I had heard all the lectures about how smoking is bad for your health but, Hell, being buried alive is pretty damn bad for your health too.

    Fishing through my skirt pockets, I clutched my chrome cigarette lighter in shaking hands. Flicking the striker with my thumb, a faint blue spark filled the rectangular wooden box for a minute instance.

    I flicked again. And again. And again.

    "C'mon, dammit!" I screamed. "Come on!" I clutched the object tightly in one hand, took a deep breath and flicked the striker once more. I almost dropped it in my excitement as the flame caught and held.

    The small sliver of fire seemed almost mystical as beautiful oranges, reds, blues and even greens danced in my hand. I had never seen such a brilliant display. I was on the verge of a hypnotic trance.

    'Do or die,' I heard my Mother's voice reverberate off the wooden walls. 'Do or die.'

    Flinging an elbow over my nostrils, I held the small silver lighter to the spot I had clawed at earlier. Patience was a virtue, I had heard someone say once. Now I fully understood what that meant.

    After an eternity, or just a few minutes, I did not know which, I could see, hear and actually taste the wood burning. The small circle was becoming larger and larger as the fire darkened, changing the wood's integrity. I began to cough and gag as smoke slowly filled my lungs.

    Then, it hit me. Excruciating pain. An iron grip squeezed my lower right calf and would not let go. A Charlie horse. The cramp lasted several moments. I gasped, coughed and writhed in agony. Unable to contort my body in directions it needed for comfort, I bit my lip and prayed. Salty blood covered my tongue. My stomach gurgled in protest.

    "Don't throw up. Don't throw up," I commanded myself. I willed my stomach to settle and continued on with my task.

    I was perspiring again, this time more profusely. As I wiped damp hair from my stinging eyes, the cigarette lighter slid through my fingers, falling with a THUD that echoed through my coffin.

    I cried.

    I sobbed.

    I thrashed about like a temper-tantrum-throwing two-year-old. I couldn't do this. I wasn't made to handle situations like this. I took another deep breath and punched my fist at the wood in raw, deep, hatred. Hatred at Mother for leaving me to handle this alone, hatred at myself for not being stronger and hatred at the two men who had caused this entire mess, obviously due to a case of mistaken identity.

    I punched and punched and punched. The wood gave way beneath the force of my knuckles and, unbeknownst to me at the time, more than lumber was cracking and breaking. Adrenaline began to flow as did deep, dark soil.

    I was able to maneuver my face from the dust and grime that ensued but panic clutched my throat with cold, steely fingers. Had I done the wrong thing? Should I have done something differently? It was pathetically too late now. Dirt was flowing fast and furious.


    The next coherent memory I had was walking down Tolley Lane. A car horn was honking.

    "Get off the street, lady!" a man was yelling. "You homeless people need to get a job!"

    Homeless? I wasn't homeless. I was going to Bridge Academy, the private school for the well-to-do, the brightest and the best.

    Reaching my hand up to smooth my hair, I found it tangled and caked with blood and dirt. My skirt was tattered and torn. My legs scratched and bleeding.

    Everything came flooding back to me. The gas station, the men in ski masks, the one with the lisp saying, 'Sweet Daddy will pay what he owes ...' And the grave; that horrible burial plot.

    I turned onto Harner Avenue, where Daddy and I had lived for the past six years. We had moved in shortly after Mother's death. A fresh start, he had said.

    As I approached the house, I noticed my little red sports car in the driveway. I was confused but I just wanted to be inside, to take a hot shower and to call the police.

    As I quietly opened the front door, I heard my father's voice.

    "You did well, Maurice," he was saying. "No one will suspect that I was the one who plotted and planned this. The life insurance papers will be in the mail tomorrow morning; I can pay off those drug goons, and you, of course, and still have enough money left over to move to the Caymans." He chuckled easily; happily.

    "Oh, yes, no more paying for expensive cars, clothes or schools. I can spend my money on the one who counts the most. Me!"

    I listened as sadness filled my chest. Daddy? Daddy was behind this?

    I heard a long exasperated sigh. "Yes, trust me will you? I told you, I got away with it six years ago when I killed her mother Julie. No one's ever pointed a finger in my direction."

    I looked around the foyer for a weapon; anything. Emotions overwhelmed me. Shock, disgust, sadness, betrayal. I cannot begin to describe the depth of my heartache. How could I face this man? No, this monster!

    Atop a stack of car magazines on the side table sat my cell phone. Pink case, bling-bling up and down the sides. Forget cars, clothes, hair and bling. All I cared about now was justice.

    'Do or die, baby,' my Mother's spirit urged as I dialed 9-1-1.


  • shuchiprasadink 190w


    Burials can only be done
    by the undertaker..