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#grief poem
fairydrowning · 9 months
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Grief is the only proof that I love and I love well. Love and grief are actually intertwined with each other and as "Akif Kichloo" once wrote, "the opposite of grief is not laughter or happiness or joy. It is love. It is love. It is love."
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krystaln78 · 1 month
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Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof I paid the price.
— Glennon Doyle Melton, Love Warrior
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lunchboxpoems · 10 months
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LUCILLE CLIFTON
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imfullofworms · 1 year
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There exists an original of this poem that I might share some day <3 but for now it seemed meaningless against the above
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samxcamargo · 1 year
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Book: The Pain of Healing by Samantha Camargo on amazon 💛
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nmolesofadrenaline · 7 months
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stantheanomaly · 7 months
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Last night I cried myself to sleep, because it ached. To be alive.
- Suvrahadip Ghosh, The Ache Called Life
Found it relatable? Experience the heartwrenching range of emotions as you read more such relatable pieces in my debut book Ruins, it's available on Amazon at a 6% discounted rate 🌻
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thedumbbrunette0-0 · 2 years
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Okay… so we all love “The Two-Headed Calf” by Laura Gilpin, but here are some of her other poems that I think deserve some recognition
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letterstomonkey · 1 year
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Grief is a leaky faucet and a forged signature; The pipes froze over and you forgot to Call your mom back, and that was three days ago. Grief is addictive, Residual and graceless; I grieve in place of a Painted-by-hand Ceramic, potted plant. Grief is visceral itching A scabbing tattoo Sunday at 6pm Tumbleweeds in the pantry and my bedroom is sick of me; Grief is opening the blinds for the first time at 6pm Because it is better to start the day Dripping faucet and all, when the alternative is keeled over in a parking lot. Grief is a feeling, or a meaning a meal, a money order, a missing sock or a tearful walk- But I can grieve you in rooms I haven't stepped in yet, But I can grieve you in brush strokes on a blank page, But I can grieve you in how I cough up smoke. Grief is regret. Grieving you, like gawking at a full moon only to discover it was yesterday, so now what will you find in the sky to celebrate? Grief is the last time we looked at the moon at the same time, never knowing it, Grief is a leaky faucet.
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[Sarah Dessen, The Truth About forever/ Suzanne Finnamore, Split: A Memoir of Divorce/ Melina Marchetta, The Piper's Son/ Meghan O'Rourke, The Long Goodbye/ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed/ Jandy Nelson, The Sky Is Everywhere/Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince (The Infernal Devices, #2)/ Fredrik Backman, The Deal of Lifetime/ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed/ Alexandra Fuller, Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness]
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gracefultulips · 4 months
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Carrying grief at a young age means every single milestone and happy moment is forever tainted a little grey.
Simply because you are not here to celebrate it with me.
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fairydrowning · 2 years
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-Heidi Priebe, As Long As There Is Love, There Will Be Grief
[TEXT ID: The grief of time passing, of life moving on half-finished, of empty spaces that were once bursting with the laughter and energy of people we loved. As long as there is love there will be grief because grief is love's natural continuation. It shows up in the aisles of stores we once frequented, in the whiff of cologne we get two years after they've been gone. Grief is a giant neon sign, protruding through everything, pointing everywhere, broadcasting loudly, "LOVE WAS HERE". In the finer print, quietly, "LOVE STILL IS". END ID]
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mimimurmurs · 2 months
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i will build a life i don’t have to escape from.
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lunchboxpoems · 16 days
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DRESSING FOR THE BURIAL
No one wants to talk about the hilarity after death —
the way the week my brother shot himself,
his wife and I fell on the bed laughing
because she couldn’t decide what to wear for the big day,
and asked me, “Do I go for sexy or Amish?” I told her sexy.
And we rolled around on the mattress they shared
for eighteen years, clutching our sides.
Meanwhile, he lay in a narrow refrigerated drawer,
soft brown curls springing from his scalp,
framing his handsome face. This was back when
he still had a face, and we were going to see it.
“Hold up the black skirt again,” I said. She said, “Which one?”
And then she said, “You look so Mafia Chic,” and I said, “Thank you,”
and it went on until we both got tired and our ribs hurt and now
I don’t even remember what we wore. Only that we both looked fabulous
weeping over that open hole in the ground.
DANUSHA LAMÉRIS
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imfullofworms · 10 months
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It's not often, but
I sometimes wish
to go back to my youth; maybe six, when Nana
would collect me from school and make
chip sandwiches.
I miss
asking her about things
that seemed important—
like why do birds nest in trees and
why is the Sun yellow. I'm still not sure about
either, but I am no longer
able to ask.
by me
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samxcamargo · 9 months
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Book: The Pain of Healing by Samantha Camargo on amazon 💛
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