i want these poems written on my grave.

Here I am, 12 days late, but finally posting my thread.

I find that my mind has a way of 'pushing me away' when I need time to rest. Over the last year, poetry has felt forced, until recently. In the last month, I have written some of my first genuine poems again after I needed time to live more in the physical world than getting deep into my head. And to be honest, I am struggling a lot right now. I have felt some of the deepest hopelessness of my entire life, except for the first time, I am facing it as a survivor of everything I have already faced. I could write long paragraphs here and explain the thoughts about life and death that my mind is struggling with, but instead, I think I will leave the rest unsaid. It means a lot to me to have others read my poetry. Please feel free to comment and tell me which parts you relate to! It means a lot to me.

Goals:
-write poems whenever they come and don't hold back
-cry lots, feel it all, accept it, but still live

2024: the disease of overthinking.
2024 NaPo Week: sometimes dead is better.
2025: one loves the sunset when one is so sad.
2025 NaPo Week: he is half my soul, as the poets say.

Table of contents:
1
2
3

1/ Staring in the mirror, seeing my physical body and trying to connect her to my inner being.

Who is this human, whose body feels so much grief?
She holds my soul in her palm, squeezing me tightly,
Trying to teach me what it means to feel pain.
Her eyes stare back at me, watering away an earthly sorrow, forcing me to carry another stone.
I have work to be done;
which can only be slowed by a restless mind,
stopped by a still heart,
and finished by a life of misery.
Who is this human, who lives only to die;
while dying to live a life where the invisible soul
can exist without the ever-increasing,
ever-squeezing, ever-feeling, physical body.
Who is this human?

2/ A poem I felt for many months, before it all came out at once. A poem I want written on my grave.

I lived, I died,
I was terrified of death at every moment,
But still, it eventually consumed me.
Now I lie in my grave, wrapped in the arms of
The black dog who followed me every day I lived.
I traveled everywhere, read everything,
thought too much, trying to make it worth it to continue to breathe.
And still, here I lie, forever silenced,
As if I had never lived.
Every moment was torture,
Every moment was beautiful,
Every moment was filled with regret,
Every moment was lonely,
Every moment I was not understood,
Every moment was worth it.
Every moment happened, and perhaps if you are reading this, you are like me.
Please live for me.

3/ A poem I felt when I found a dead bird and saw a bumblebee die. A poem I felt when I buried a bug and cried.

I will not kick your body when you have died,
I will not poke you with a stick, letting your neck break
And your feathers ruffle, your face scraping the pavement,
Your blindness will never be a joke to me,
Your body was never too small to feel pain,
Your eyes were never soulless,
When I see you trying to free yourself, I realize,
Your existence was quite similar to mine,
Walking in circles on a pavement floor, looking for familiarity, surrounded by matter that means nothing to me, yet my soul is bound to a physical existence that is immovable.
Finally, killed only by forces out of your control,
You succumb to the greatest ending,
I cry and wish I had known you, as I know myself,
Yet, part of me feels like I will meet you again,
Even a bumblebee, or an orange-chested bird,
Or some creature too wild or too small to see,
I will not kick your body when you have died,
I see my death in yours, my lifeless self being moved,
Am I there? Or have I gone to sleep?
I buried you in a spot I have cried tears of loneliness,
Dread, fear, a desperation to escape the world,
Without losing my life.
Perhaps you have gone to a place where all wild
And untamed things go, finally, to rest with the others
Like you. And like me.
Rest calmly, let your grave hold you, the way I wish I did.