It was a pretty dreary funeral, after all. People just kept coming up to the family, paying their respects and then mosing on as far and fast away from them as possible. It was almost as if nobody wanted to acknowledge the fact that he was gone. He just lay there, totally devoid of life but somehow still keeping that twinkle in his now closed eye (or eyes).
I just had this word. I would like another. Nobody really wants to go to a funeral; they just do it because it’s customary. I went to my uncle’s funeral, and they buried him next to a crypt. I would dislike being put next to something more eye catching than my own grave, but then again I don’t give a shit because I’m dead. I
It was a pretty dreary funeral, after all. People just kept coming up to the family, paying their respects and then mosing on as far and fast away from them as possible. It was almost as if nobody wanted to acknowledge the fact that he was gone.
It’s black. It’s the end of all time. It’s your life. A funeral to remember all that you’ve done… Did you accomplish all that you wanted? Are you remembered for all the right things? It’s unfortunate to say, but no one realizes how much they’ve needed you until they are saying goodbye at your funeral.
I like to know
I like to think
that they are everywhere;
those poets, that you see, sometimes, on the streets, trying to be incognito, but looking a little too long at the funeral procession going by, and you can see in their head, their translucent fishbowl head, they can’t help but think of everything at once.
poets, to me, are too close to psychics.
one look at you and they’ve found your whole life story, they’ve found a new one for you that isn’t exactly right, but it’s closer than you’re willing to admit, there are parallels, there’s some foreshadowing and motifs, and I wonder about them, sometimes, if it’s just a bad habit or a curse, the way they compulsively construct stories like detectives or hoarders or
more truly
old men. old men who know everything because they’ve seen everything. old men who’ve worked on the atom bomb, who knew hitler as a child. who still cling to the names of small-time wars nobody else can recall; there is a Wal-Mart instead of a plaque on the battlefield, because in all honesty, their heart-wrenching life-changing gun-fire is too unimpressive by today’s standards, of whole cities gone and lost because of the proud man trying to prove his point.
I hope there is a special place in heaven for poets; a place where, finally, they can see everything at once;
for the first time,
overwhelmed,
they can feel peace.
Funerals are sad. All people do is think about the heartbreak and the loss of another. Everyone weears black. Death, doom and loss. It is the end of all life, which is scary. I picture a cemetary and sunckin bodies beneath the earth. Some old and some new….
a sad event where you remember a loved one or someone you didn’t spend enough time with which results in guilt and puts down your own self worth. you try to think of something to say to their family but everything comes up wrong.
I feel this is the funeral of all things creative for me. My mind is a cemetery and all interesting ideas have buried themselves quietly in their respective graves while I sit there, weeping, grieving, longing for inspiriation to come back from the dead so I can have something of substance to write about.
When people die, there’s usually a funeral. You’re supposed to wear black, but what is the point in wearing black? Black is a depressing color. Wouldn’t you rather wear something colorful to a funeral so everybody is just a little happier? I just don’t understand people. They make absolutely no sense.
The funeral lasted for weeks. Ceremony after ceremony were completed, until the rightful heir to the Seat of Shastgaurd had been validated. Finally, it was time to head back home to begin his training.
funeral director.
her name is Heather.
three funerals in a month;
she knows me quite well now.
she tells me: “yes, this is how they are nowadays, people are moving away from the processions.”
i can’t help but think of weddings.
and another thing: and when
did the definition
of being alive
involve being welcome?
X’s on the back of her hands from last night, from a funeral, one of those new-age ones the hipsters hold, where they have an open bar like it’s a wedding, because crazy, to them, is being still.
twenty-second birthday for the girl, goes to a topless bar, gets one free drink for her good looks, another for choosing them on her special day. it’s a set-up like a joke but there comes no punchline; she goes home with a man she doesn’t know, has sex she doesn’t much enjoy, picks up her car from the parking lot of the bar in the morning, finds some kids have tagged her windshield. Sout Side, it says, missing a T. but at least
despite the annoyance and her lingering pain
at least
this
makes her smile.
The first funeral I ever went to was my grandpa’s. He died when I was 10 years old. I remember reading a bible verse at the service, though I don’t remember what it was or what it was about. All I could think of was him on his lawn mower. That’s what he really liked to do. Mow the grass. And he was good at it. Until he got really old and would forget patches, creating small patterns in our large yard. Mowing the grass is kind of like life-we grow and we prune, and sometimes we leave room to grow, like the patches my grandpa left behind. Like the patterns engraved on my heart through memories of him.
The funeral procession came around the corner onto the street he was standing on. His face seemed rather long, as though he were sad about something, but I knew that he couldn’t be upset over the procession because he didn’t know the person who had died. As a matter of fact, he didn’t have any family at all.
I have been to too many funerals. Probably the funniest one was my late husband’s. Most of the time was spent laughing instead of crying. Just wish he could have heard all the jokes. He would have jumped in there and laughed with the rest of us.
It had been an overwhelming month, and it was strange to think that a birthday party could be so closely linked to her best friend’s funeral. That simple fact explained the overabundance of tequila that had been senselessly imbibed the night before.
funerals are the way we say goodbye. They are a construct of society which allow us to feel more at peace with a tragic event. They provide a mass stage of grief with which to experience your own personal mourning for the lost one.
Sad places although sometimes happy if you think of it in the right way. It can be more a celebration of the person’s life than just tears and sadness. Particularly if the person was older and therefore had a lot of good memories and stories. Funerals also mark the end of someone’s suffering if they were very sick. So that’s not a bad thing. Everything in life is a matter of perspective.
Turn that frown upside-down! Come on down to Good-Time Charlie’s Pizzeria, Massage Parlor (be sure ask about the “good-time special”), and Funerary Services, where we put the FUN in FUNeral.
ive only been to one, it was denikas, she wasnt a close friend of mine or anything but i really liked her, she was always smilings and was friendly and had a really loud hearty laugh i didnt really cry at school or at the funeral but i creid when i got home. it was crazy that someone my age actually had their life ended right then and there , i was in shock. i didnt feel any different when i found out, i didnt really believe it. like i knew in my brain that it was true but i still couldnt convince myself that it REALLY actually was. i still think about it from time to time. still think about what the funeral would have been like if it were me that died instead. if it were mykala. i dont know. its weird. but its the only funeral ive ever been to. it was sad, but whats saddest is when your just by yourself and no one is forcing you to think about it and it just hits you. like bam. i was at robotics when it hit me and i actually completley realized . oh my god. shes gone. and i felt sick kind of. a little dizzy. it was weird
I love wearing black at a funeral. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the events themselves; of course not. But I can really be creative with what I wear, really express my love of all things black. And no one will think anything of it.
I watched the endless stream of cars go by, and all i could think of was how my mother used to say how lucky it was to see a funeral. I think she always said that because it was because it wasn’t her funeral.
Sometimes funerals can be very funny things. While most of the people are being sad, there is always a few who will remember really funny stories about the person lying in the box.
i still remembert my scream in my mothers funeral it was the saddest sound I have ever heard in my life, the saddest. I will never hear that sound again wow what brought up this stuff man yeh this is its taking forever for the sicty seconds to eve
The wind smears the outside of my car window as if it’s desperate to come inside. I watch it whip against and around the people standing near that hole in the ground. I don’t have the courage to step out of the car just yet.
Resurrection of the dead; it is the will of God for everyone to be saved. Many times I have known people that have died, even now, more than ever, and it is the will of God for everyone to receive Jesus. sadly most of them don’t, and they perish for the lack of knowledge. For it isn’t our fault, but it is the devil who always throws lies into our minds. Now people need Jesus more than ever. Funerals with people with Jesus in their hearts aren’t people who are going to remain sad, but they are funerals with joy; funerals with people without Jesus, it is one of grief, sorrow, and eternal fear.
I held a funeral for my shadow, as sad as any I have been to. Dear shadow, my trusted friend, I will miss you. When the light shines on me, your touch is close. But what use you, umbral brother, when I am stubbling in the dark. Goodbye.
I have never visited anybody’s funeral, but would certailnly like to, in order to observe the seriousness of the situation. I have heard that in funerals, people dress up in black colored clothes, while in India, they are in white.
sally wondered why her, why him, it could have been something beautiful and now its over. she couldnt look at his body, the closed eyes she once used to dream about where empty. an entire futre just gone in an instant. she felt the ring on her finger, was heavy and weight her down just like her heart. she looked around at everyone and wondered what they were thinking
At every occasion we are ready for the funeral… what a bleak lyric. I’ve never been to a funeral– I’ve actually never lost anybody close. I like to think the small emotional things that happen to me are for a reason– to prepare me for something a worse.
I have sixty seconds to write about something very depressing. You attend them to give ‘condolences’ when really there is nothing left to say. ‘Sorry’ is just an empty word to make you feel better when others are upset. It’s society’s way of dealing with death and creating a process in what we’re all so frightened of.
Sure, go ahead and do it. Go ahead, speed along, don’t even think about it. Jump off the cliff. Run into the brick wall. Commit suicide and patricide and murder. Screw yourself over. Go ahead and do it; it’s your funeral
a shitty day on the island. we drove to the cemetery, we had our seatbelts on, but it didn’t matter to us at the moment. we hardly thought about it.
chrissy asked for a tissue, and mom said we were out . she used her sleeve. a real mess of a day.
It was a sad procession down the aisle. It wasn’t how he imagined he’d walk his daughter on her “special” day at all. Tears glided from his eyes to his graying beard, a sign that stress had hit him with an extreme blow.
Funerals are sad, yes. But more often, they’re happy. Instead of mourning these lives, we choose to celebrate them. People will cry, but there are people there to comfort them. It brings a family together, even if in a sad situation.
The mahogany box was open at the half.
Tears collapsed through the silk gown.
His voice trembled as the words were read.
The small room was silent, only her voice was heard.
It was a pretty dreary funeral, after all. People just kept coming up to the family, paying their respects and then mosing on as far and fast away from them as possible. It was almost as if nobody wanted to acknowledge the fact that he was gone. He just lay there, totally devoid of life but somehow still keeping that twinkle in his now closed eye (or eyes).
I just had this word. I would like another. Nobody really wants to go to a funeral; they just do it because it’s customary. I went to my uncle’s funeral, and they buried him next to a crypt. I would dislike being put next to something more eye catching than my own grave, but then again I don’t give a shit because I’m dead. I
I don’t like funerals. I don’t imagine anyone does, but I… don’t know that I can finish this prompt. I don’t like funerals.
It was a pretty dreary funeral, after all. People just kept coming up to the family, paying their respects and then mosing on as far and fast away from them as possible. It was almost as if nobody wanted to acknowledge the fact that he was gone.
It’s black. It’s the end of all time. It’s your life. A funeral to remember all that you’ve done… Did you accomplish all that you wanted? Are you remembered for all the right things? It’s unfortunate to say, but no one realizes how much they’ve needed you until they are saying goodbye at your funeral.
I like to know
I like to think
that they are everywhere;
those poets, that you see, sometimes, on the streets, trying to be incognito, but looking a little too long at the funeral procession going by, and you can see in their head, their translucent fishbowl head, they can’t help but think of everything at once.
poets, to me, are too close to psychics.
one look at you and they’ve found your whole life story, they’ve found a new one for you that isn’t exactly right, but it’s closer than you’re willing to admit, there are parallels, there’s some foreshadowing and motifs, and I wonder about them, sometimes, if it’s just a bad habit or a curse, the way they compulsively construct stories like detectives or hoarders or
more truly
old men. old men who know everything because they’ve seen everything. old men who’ve worked on the atom bomb, who knew hitler as a child. who still cling to the names of small-time wars nobody else can recall; there is a Wal-Mart instead of a plaque on the battlefield, because in all honesty, their heart-wrenching life-changing gun-fire is too unimpressive by today’s standards, of whole cities gone and lost because of the proud man trying to prove his point.
I hope there is a special place in heaven for poets; a place where, finally, they can see everything at once;
for the first time,
overwhelmed,
they can feel peace.
Funerals are sad. All people do is think about the heartbreak and the loss of another. Everyone weears black. Death, doom and loss. It is the end of all life, which is scary. I picture a cemetary and sunckin bodies beneath the earth. Some old and some new….
a sad event where you remember a loved one or someone you didn’t spend enough time with which results in guilt and puts down your own self worth. you try to think of something to say to their family but everything comes up wrong.
I feel this is the funeral of all things creative for me. My mind is a cemetery and all interesting ideas have buried themselves quietly in their respective graves while I sit there, weeping, grieving, longing for inspiriation to come back from the dead so I can have something of substance to write about.
When people die, there’s usually a funeral. You’re supposed to wear black, but what is the point in wearing black? Black is a depressing color. Wouldn’t you rather wear something colorful to a funeral so everybody is just a little happier? I just don’t understand people. They make absolutely no sense.
The funeral lasted for weeks. Ceremony after ceremony were completed, until the rightful heir to the Seat of Shastgaurd had been validated. Finally, it was time to head back home to begin his training.
funeral director.
her name is Heather.
three funerals in a month;
she knows me quite well now.
she tells me: “yes, this is how they are nowadays, people are moving away from the processions.”
i can’t help but think of weddings.
and another thing: and when
did the definition
of being alive
involve being welcome?
X’s on the back of her hands from last night, from a funeral, one of those new-age ones the hipsters hold, where they have an open bar like it’s a wedding, because crazy, to them, is being still.
twenty-second birthday for the girl, goes to a topless bar, gets one free drink for her good looks, another for choosing them on her special day. it’s a set-up like a joke but there comes no punchline; she goes home with a man she doesn’t know, has sex she doesn’t much enjoy, picks up her car from the parking lot of the bar in the morning, finds some kids have tagged her windshield. Sout Side, it says, missing a T. but at least
despite the annoyance and her lingering pain
at least
this
makes her smile.
The first funeral I ever went to was my grandpa’s. He died when I was 10 years old. I remember reading a bible verse at the service, though I don’t remember what it was or what it was about. All I could think of was him on his lawn mower. That’s what he really liked to do. Mow the grass. And he was good at it. Until he got really old and would forget patches, creating small patterns in our large yard. Mowing the grass is kind of like life-we grow and we prune, and sometimes we leave room to grow, like the patches my grandpa left behind. Like the patterns engraved on my heart through memories of him.
The funeral procession came around the corner onto the street he was standing on. His face seemed rather long, as though he were sad about something, but I knew that he couldn’t be upset over the procession because he didn’t know the person who had died. As a matter of fact, he didn’t have any family at all.
I have been to too many funerals. Probably the funniest one was my late husband’s. Most of the time was spent laughing instead of crying. Just wish he could have heard all the jokes. He would have jumped in there and laughed with the rest of us.
It had been an overwhelming month, and it was strange to think that a birthday party could be so closely linked to her best friend’s funeral. That simple fact explained the overabundance of tequila that had been senselessly imbibed the night before.
funerals are the way we say goodbye. They are a construct of society which allow us to feel more at peace with a tragic event. They provide a mass stage of grief with which to experience your own personal mourning for the lost one.
my dad’s funeral was on a wednesday, almost 11 years ago. i’ve only been to one other funeral since then.
Sad places although sometimes happy if you think of it in the right way. It can be more a celebration of the person’s life than just tears and sadness. Particularly if the person was older and therefore had a lot of good memories and stories. Funerals also mark the end of someone’s suffering if they were very sick. So that’s not a bad thing. Everything in life is a matter of perspective.
Turn that frown upside-down! Come on down to Good-Time Charlie’s Pizzeria, Massage Parlor (be sure ask about the “good-time special”), and Funerary Services, where we put the FUN in FUNeral.
ive only been to one, it was denikas, she wasnt a close friend of mine or anything but i really liked her, she was always smilings and was friendly and had a really loud hearty laugh i didnt really cry at school or at the funeral but i creid when i got home. it was crazy that someone my age actually had their life ended right then and there , i was in shock. i didnt feel any different when i found out, i didnt really believe it. like i knew in my brain that it was true but i still couldnt convince myself that it REALLY actually was. i still think about it from time to time. still think about what the funeral would have been like if it were me that died instead. if it were mykala. i dont know. its weird. but its the only funeral ive ever been to. it was sad, but whats saddest is when your just by yourself and no one is forcing you to think about it and it just hits you. like bam. i was at robotics when it hit me and i actually completley realized . oh my god. shes gone. and i felt sick kind of. a little dizzy. it was weird
I love wearing black at a funeral. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the events themselves; of course not. But I can really be creative with what I wear, really express my love of all things black. And no one will think anything of it.
I watched the endless stream of cars go by, and all i could think of was how my mother used to say how lucky it was to see a funeral. I think she always said that because it was because it wasn’t her funeral.
The two of them walked into the funeral home, slick and salty from the southern summer sun and asked to see daddy.
Sometimes funerals can be very funny things. While most of the people are being sad, there is always a few who will remember really funny stories about the person lying in the box.
i still remembert my scream in my mothers funeral it was the saddest sound I have ever heard in my life, the saddest. I will never hear that sound again wow what brought up this stuff man yeh this is its taking forever for the sicty seconds to eve
The wind smears the outside of my car window as if it’s desperate to come inside. I watch it whip against and around the people standing near that hole in the ground. I don’t have the courage to step out of the car just yet.
Resurrection of the dead; it is the will of God for everyone to be saved. Many times I have known people that have died, even now, more than ever, and it is the will of God for everyone to receive Jesus. sadly most of them don’t, and they perish for the lack of knowledge. For it isn’t our fault, but it is the devil who always throws lies into our minds. Now people need Jesus more than ever. Funerals with people with Jesus in their hearts aren’t people who are going to remain sad, but they are funerals with joy; funerals with people without Jesus, it is one of grief, sorrow, and eternal fear.
Misery, sorrow, yet smiles appear through the tears – a celebration of life. A crowd in black fills the room, Dido’s Lament by Purcell plays.
I held a funeral for my shadow, as sad as any I have been to. Dear shadow, my trusted friend, I will miss you. When the light shines on me, your touch is close. But what use you, umbral brother, when I am stubbling in the dark. Goodbye.
I have never visited anybody’s funeral, but would certailnly like to, in order to observe the seriousness of the situation. I have heard that in funerals, people dress up in black colored clothes, while in India, they are in white.
sally wondered why her, why him, it could have been something beautiful and now its over. she couldnt look at his body, the closed eyes she once used to dream about where empty. an entire futre just gone in an instant. she felt the ring on her finger, was heavy and weight her down just like her heart. she looked around at everyone and wondered what they were thinking
At every occasion we are ready for the funeral… what a bleak lyric. I’ve never been to a funeral– I’ve actually never lost anybody close. I like to think the small emotional things that happen to me are for a reason– to prepare me for something a worse.
I have sixty seconds to write about something very depressing. You attend them to give ‘condolences’ when really there is nothing left to say. ‘Sorry’ is just an empty word to make you feel better when others are upset. It’s society’s way of dealing with death and creating a process in what we’re all so frightened of.
Sure, go ahead and do it. Go ahead, speed along, don’t even think about it. Jump off the cliff. Run into the brick wall. Commit suicide and patricide and murder. Screw yourself over. Go ahead and do it; it’s your funeral
a shitty day on the island. we drove to the cemetery, we had our seatbelts on, but it didn’t matter to us at the moment. we hardly thought about it.
chrissy asked for a tissue, and mom said we were out . she used her sleeve. a real mess of a day.
It was a sad procession down the aisle. It wasn’t how he imagined he’d walk his daughter on her “special” day at all. Tears glided from his eyes to his graying beard, a sign that stress had hit him with an extreme blow.
Funerals are sad, yes. But more often, they’re happy. Instead of mourning these lives, we choose to celebrate them. People will cry, but there are people there to comfort them. It brings a family together, even if in a sad situation.
The mahogany box was open at the half.
Tears collapsed through the silk gown.
His voice trembled as the words were read.
The small room was silent, only her voice was heard.