Poetry About Dying Young Novels & Stories

Her father was an American soldier and her mom a waitress. They were both gone now, but all of her family was unfortunately. She’d had a son named Geoff about five years younger than Nina; he was killed by a drunk driver when he was only 17. She only spoke of him once though she had pictures all over. It nearly killed her though somehow when Nina wandered off as a junkie she didn’t have the same feelings of loss.

He mess the messy hair this time, and said, “Father, what's with your words? I don't understand a bit!” “What I'm trying to say is simply,” he said, kneel down to reach the withering land. “This is dead, but don't you know it contain life? It... hide the life through it's death!” The bloody youth become more unsighty. He said, “Are you tell me this withering land is died, yet alive?” “This withering land is not dead,” he cleared out, his voice hoarse. “It's not yet housing life, so it's not dead.”

When I looked down at the snow in my hand, it had already melted into a pool of crystal clear water in the palm of my hand, dripping down through the gaps between my fingers. Why are all the beautiful things in the world fragile? Isn't snow the purest soul of the world? The like of a snowflake is like a shooting star, penetrating the darkness and illuminating the universe though disappearing in a flash. My parents passed away and I became an orphan. An orphan's life was like this snowflake, swirling, flying, floating, and eventually falling into the darkness. If I died today, no one would shed a tear. No one would even know that I had ever visited this world. No one would mourn for me. I was

A child ran past us with a small flame cupped in her hands, careful and proud. "Do you know how many people would want what you have right now?" His voice turned hard as he whispered. "People die with things they never said, never did, never tried. They die waiting for the right time and the right time never comes and they just—" He stopped. "They just end." I glared at the fire.

Vaughn add, turning off the gas. I take slow sips from my coffee, my eyes fixed on my phone which I'm slowly swiping through. “I already told you that I'm too young to die. And food poisoning is not going to kill me. Take that poison away. Please, thank you.” I plead with him this time with a dying need in my voice.

~~~ R-O-M-12:12—12|13|14|15 - hope II-C-O-R-4:10—31|32|33|34|35 - dying J-O-H-N-3:16—17|18|19|20|21 - world 4_2_3_5_5 H O P E _ _ _ _ _ D Y I N G W O R L D 4 2 3 5 5 ~~~ “Hope on the Dying World?” - Xol “Hope in the Dying World?” - Czaquira “Hope of the Dying World.” Timotheus uttered.

“He is dead,” a voice whispered in my ear. “No, he isn’t,” I replied. I looked back at the body of the man I once loved, knowing this would be the last time I’d see him. Wondering why our love had to end this way. Truly, he was dead to me.** --- Tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t wipe them away. This poem wasn’t just words. It was her truth. And strangers across the internet were reading it, feeling it, and paying for it.

I resign to its cruel embrace, to the luridly wrenching arms awaiting me. There was so much to be done. Too much. I can't die this easily, a pitiful prey in the trap of simpletons. I can't, right? My breath shallows in answer. A hollowness rings, absolute and acute. It's a worse demise than I could have predicted. A miserable end to a life I'd once revelled in building from scratch. It can't be, can it? I can't die in this insignificant manner, can I?

I winked, trying to sound light-hearted, but I meant that in more ways than one. I had been convinced that Killing Cliff was the only way out, but that door had opened a flood to so many other things. At first, there were recurrent nightmares, and as more of his allies came after us, somewhere along the lines, I understood that unlike what the poetry classes had taught, we lived in a world where the weak were prey. It was kill or be killed, so we devoured whatever was before us and refused to look back. That alone is the luxury of the dying.

Worth the echo within For getting hurt It is no more new to me It is no more strange to me The search for money From floor to floor Makes me crazy Damn, it is this My dedications My indisputable Life's achievement After great efforts Pain, pain and only pain Remains I must die I feel at times Why live Why live But then I now count Suicide a sin But am I still not Being dying Each day, by hurt in it Some new disease In me Shown so bright My inability To compete With my life's misfit Am I not dying Or approaching death Closer and clearer Each day appears My end Am I not dying With pain in the chest With the inability to compete With sorrows, I have met Dead past too Unfortunately It is not dea