Your Dying Day

As the blade pierces your side
The blood pours down
You fall to your knees
On th cold hard ground

The graveyard filled with people
Some hug eachother, some cry
You're in a tiny box
On your back you lie

They lower you into the ground
And say a small prayer for you
How's that suppose to help you now?
What's that suppose to do?

by Jessi Miller

Other poems of MILLER (6)

Comments (2)

Hi Jessi, I lost a brother due to gang violence. He wasn't in a gang, but just was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was only 18 years old when he was stabbed and didn't make it through. Reading your poem reminded me of how I felt the day of his funeral. Powerful writing you have here. Sincerely, Connie Webb
How's that suppose to help you now, so true.................