# buried alive



## empty little borderline

When you gave into the hatred, it was a path you did pave;

One which led to the digging of your grave.

Now in your grave you fearfully lye,

As you curl up and wait to die.

Impatiently awaiting till your life is devoid,

It's apparent this path was one you couldn't avoid.

Trapped within, no one can hear your pitiful screaming,

As the mind is thrust into eternal dreaming.

Cries muffled by the coffin walls,

You realize how pathetic are your desperate calls.

Rapidly the air begins to deteriorate,

And your lungs too painfully incinerate.

As if on fire from the inside out,

You once again utter an unheard shout.

Your breath becomes short and ragged,

While your sight becomes blurred and jagged.

It's as if your spiraling down a funnel;

One that follows an endless tunnel.

Inch by inch, fraction by fraction.

All your life you had wanted some action.

Vigorously you fight tooth and nail,

But unfortunately it's all to no avail.

Now all that remains are smothered gasps--

Ones that sound more like deadly rasps.

Screaming in agony your body does shriek,

But it's the afterlife your bones do seek.

Your eyelids close,

And your strength too goes.

Your will to live dwindles fast,

As across your vision runs your past.

Weakened by the strenuous effort, your body does give,

As on and on you no longer live.

When the death rattle hisses from your tired soul,

You feel your lungs burn like dying embers on coal.

Fresh in your grave but already nothing but bone;

Flesh and blood as cold as stone.

Eyes as sunken as deflated balloons;

Tears as dry as desert dunes.

When you walk along a hateful path,

In time you'll experience its ruthless wrath.

Hatred can truly consume;

Therefore leading to your immediate doom.

Slipping into the eternal slumber,

Isn't as bad as waiting your number.

All those years and you wish you did listen,

As in the moonlight the gravedigger's shovel does glisten.

It's quite sound being six feet under,

Because all has gone including the thunder.

All the fury you've ever felt,

Is nothing more than a weathered pelt.

Tranquility seizes power,

As happily you rest every hour.

Alive in the mind's grave you have been buried,

As away and down your subconcious your hatred is carried.


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## Doc

Might very well be the best original piece posted here IMHO.


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## tiredretired

Is this a poem about the upcoming presidential election?

Seriously, nice piece.  Kudos.


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## empty little borderline

TiredRetired said:


> Is this a poem about the upcoming presidential election?
> 
> Seriously, nice piece.  Kudos.



no..... nothing like that.

nothing political here

i'll post more of my stuff- i've been writing since 2005


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## pirate_girl

Nice!


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## tiredretired

empty little borderline said:


> no..... nothing like that.
> 
> nothing political here
> 
> i'll post more of my stuff- i've been writing since 2005



I was joking. That is good stuff right there.  Very impressive and thank you for sharing that.   

None of my business but I would copyright stuff like that if I could write prose as you do.


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## empty little borderline

TiredRetired said:


> I was joking. That is good stuff right there.  Very impressive and thank you for sharing that.
> 
> None of my business but I would copyright stuff like that if I could write prose as you do.



i knew you were joking don't worry.


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## Catavenger

That's intense; it's good to see a writer here.


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## empty little borderline

Catavenger said:


> That's intense; it's good to see a writer here.



i love my writing.

i like writing my poetry during long afternoons when i'm feeling disturbed- and i know that sounds wrong, but it sure provides some great writing.


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