Grief Poetry - Blog Posts

Missing You

Missing you is like that one breeze of wind that brings out memories that you didn’t even knew existed, but as soon as that wind gently brushes against your skin you are suddenly teleported back to those memories, you are suddenly back at the exact spot where you stood years ago. Missing you is just like that, I will be fine for a while and then suddenly that wind gently caresses me and just reminds me of what all I have lost.

-Han D.

I made a poem

I was feeling some complicated emotions regarding grief, emotions around grief, and other stuff. My grandma died on May 17th last year and I was feeling some confusion around all these feelings so yeah. Okay here’s the poem:

Blanket of grief

Grief, it’s complicated It feels so heavy Like a heavy blanket wrapped around your body It cuts so deep Like a knife going right for the heart It stings so bad Like a bunch of needles pricking your very soul It hits so hard Like a freight train going at full speed And hitting your spirit, which is stuck on the tracks At full force, without mercy It hurts, it hurts so much

And yet, as I’m starting to move on As the grief becomes less and less fresh As I’m starting to get used to the new normal A weird part of me, a twisted part of me, even Kind of misses it

A part of me misses the blanket The heavy blanket of grief The heavy blanket of empty sadness The heavy pressure on my soul Part of me finds comfort in the empty hollowness The deep sorrow my soul experienced While having that heavy blanket wrapped around itself

Part of me misses the knife The knife that cut through my heart at every memory I remembered Every memory of her The knife I tried to avoid by distracting myself The knife of truth, a painful truth, I tried to dodge Even though that only made the cuts bigger, the pain worse

Part of me misses the needles The needles that would prick my soul The needles which poked and taunted me from within The needles that came with each guilty thought, each unanswered question The needles of guilt and confusion, which I didn’t know how to deal with back then The guilt and confusion plaguing my very self at random

Sometimes, the freight train hits me again That’s the only thing I can’t really miss Not yet, at least It’s less bad, it hits less hard Less noticeable than when it was still new and fresh But it is there It hits with anything that reminds me of her It hits as I imagine what it would be like if she was still here Only to remember that she isn’t Not anymore The freight train brings the missed feelings back It comes with the blanket of sadness, knife of truth and needles of guilt and confusion Even though they’re all less heavy Less hard to deal with Less hard to swallow pills

I don’t know why I miss the fresh days of grief I didn’t like those times at all And still, an odd part of me Feels drawn to them Like a nostalgic memory I miss the blanket, even though it’s better that I learn to sleep without it I miss the knife, even though it’s good my heart is healing I miss the needles, even though it’s good that I’m hurting less What’s going on with me?

Feel free to comment and give your opinion on it but please don’t be mean, as this is a vent poem.

Did I crossed the line?

- Elizabeth

Recognition

To the little girl who faded with the dying light of October, 1922— My dearest Cecilia, It is with unbearable grief that I write to you. Each passing day, I am forced to reconcile with the weight of your absence, haunted by the silence you left behind. Although it wasn’t my hands that took your life, my heart aches with regret— because in the silence of my heart, I have convinced myself that it was my fault.

—A lady and her quill, Letters to dead children.

I stood dead at a grave that was not mine

a friend of a friend long since gone, though

killing me only now.

grief is as death,

is as life,

is as humanity.

Hollow -kalika

Me & Christine

A piece of my heart is buried with you, anxiously beating below the sand and soil where you lie.

I kneel next to your grave desperately needing to dig my way back to you.

Maybe if I can retrieve the other half of my heart, you'll somehow come back with it.

Our memories have no rhyme or reason because my heart lacks any consistent beat anymore.

Nearly every ounce of its will throbs tiredly remaining buried beneath the ground, as it rests in the shadow of what was left behind when your soul left your body.

-kalika

Moonshine Lies

-kalika

You just walked away like that.

And took all of my words with you.

I am left with an empty pen,

and an even emptier heart.

Where do I go from here?

Back to the misery that I came from,

or the uncertain darkness that lay ahead.

Maybe I'll rest here for a while.

Under the fading glow of the moon,

with the silence of the sky to keep me company.

It's not that I can't move on.

I just want to linger here a little more,

to trace my fingers through the blurring outlines of our fates.

Let the dying sun go in peace.

And soon enough I'll be gone from your name too.

Till then say yes to the whsipers I've sent with the wind.

Tell me that it was a good story.

And that you loved me once.

a child’s disclosure

i took notes around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.

and i wrote about the fear,

and the tears,

and the injustice of it all.

no safe space to call—

not home,

not him.

i watched puffy eyes,

matted hair,

tremors—

and i thought and thought.

but all i could do was take notes

around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.

sometimes i’m not put together. sometimes i’m not pretty. sometimes my words drip with the crudeness of bukowski and the bite of the primal woman beneath them. sometimes i’m broken and wheezing, or just hollow. as a poet, i won’t hide it. my writing follows me wherever i go. stoned, on a come down, in the thick of the healing and of the pain. i’m not palatable, no matter how you look at it. and that’s just too damn bad.

there’s an echoing in my bones telling me to

leave this place

and not return.

i can’t decide if it’s fear or fire.

my jaw clenches

and my teeth grit

and i can’t seem to stop the rope

from slipping, fraying.

my tether is escaping me

and is it fear or fire?

i need to know

before i decide.

do i leave this place?

this purpose and pay check?

do i slink away like a fox

in the night?

where’s the rope?

hello?

where’s the light?

hello?

can you hear me?

how could i kill the weeds

when i watch the bees frolick

among them?

i relapsed.

i smoked 🍃 for the first time since november of 2024.

everything got too much; the world swallowing me whole; my gut emptying to hollow; my heart beating frantically at the trapping of a vice.

so i succumbed to the relief. erased months of perseverance, strength, growth.

at least now I’ve got more to write about.

- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet

plopped into cool water, my manus flattens against the stone below as a bowl upturns like a dome above.

my marble eyes ring with the warning of moonlight, my skin glistens, slick with sage-

i peer at my greenhouse, pads reaching to press the convex glass, curiosity caressing my face-

but comfort follows me beneath the water, serenity tying me back to stone.

then steam clouds the cage; lids close off sight, then sound- suddenly, silenced, i muster one last croak. poetrycommunity

death by comfort // the boiling frog

to live without art is to live without breath.

my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.

the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.

i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.

i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.

i don’t care if it’s cliché to love the dead poet’s society. it’s a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, i’ll never be right.

🥰🥰😭😭 this is so damn sweet

paused mid breakdown after THAT scene from TLOU season 2 to document the psychic and physical damage that WILL inspire my next piece. ache in the back of my throat still hasn’t subsided. i pray for every poor soul who never saw it coming, or knew it was. a tragic, haunting, brawling masterpiece that will BE 2020s television legacy.

i was going through boxes of books and old clothes when i found the scarf you lent me.

we were going to the football and it was cold and i didn’t bring a jacket, so you lent me your scarf- your favourite team scarf.

how is it possible for a scarf to claw its way into my chest and stop my heart from beating? it’s not? well, it’s happening. it’s possible.

i almost forgot what it was like to be 16, and to love my best friend with my whole heart- my best friend who secretly loved me a little too much;

i almost forgot what it was like at 18 to kiss you in the dead of night and dismiss you in the morning;

i almost forgot how entwined we once were, how many libraries i could fill with every story and aching that passed between us.

staring at your scarf, now dusted by 10 years, i can’t think of anything else.

Yena Sharma Purmasir - “When I’m Not There”

There is pain in acceptance. It's a stage of grief for a reason, I suppose...

I feel like this was the worst when you were a kid. Everyone was just stupid and immature, and you could understand their feelings and their thoughts in a blink, but if you let a drop of your true ones into a conversation, they all ran and hid, terrified of the black and blue on your heart and the seeping darkness of your head. Because that second grader you play tag with on the playground doesn't want to hear about the words that echo in your head every night, the times you dig your nails into your skin and can breathe a little easier, the night you found your dad sitting on the couch at one in the morning with the most empty, hopeless eyes you'd ever seen. So we laugh and play and learn to act like a kid but we struggle to ever really define friendship because that fake, plastic thing was all we grew up with. And maybe there were other kids on that playground with the exact same thoughts, but we were just too good at what we did to ever find each other. Maybe I'll spend my whole life looking for someone with sad eyes and a bright smile so they can finally understand.

“You cannot make everyone think and feel as deeply as you do. This is your tragedy … because you understand them, and they do not understand you.”

— Daniel Saint