please let me know if you like my poem and if it's clear and if you can understand the deeper meaning of it. I've worked on this for about a week, and put some real effort into it. thanks. hugs. Em. Darkness falls on urban streets Submerging cities loud sharp peaks Swallowing up the sun’s soft beams Nothing’s ever as it seems Once the darkness covers all The night takes hold of her own law Shapeless figures all around Creeping softly, they make no sound Bitter cold surrounds streetlights Breaking them with all her might Windows shatter and fall to the ground And she seeps in without a sound Rosy faces watch their dreams Not knowing what their fate now deems Withered hands tug at a young boy’s soul Picking at it until he’s not whole His cry is lost in his tears He tries to scream but no one hears Time then freezes and holds him still He no longer has free will He is found and put to rest But no one hears or sees his protest Rotting flesh encase his bones It hurts him so he tries to moan Trapped forever in his prime He stares into the cold hard eyes of time Waiting for his lost soul Waiting once more to be whole Nothing’s ever as it seems Rosy faces watch their dreams Not knowing Darkness and her ways Only accepting what others portray [font="][/font]
"Trapped forever in his prime He stares into the cold hard eyes of time Waiting for his lost soul Waiting once more to be whole" Loved it i really like your style and purpose
This is my favorite line, it is quite beautiful. Yes, your poem is clear. Thank you for sharing and spending your time and energy and effort. I appriciate your work.
Thank you both very much. This poem is not only supposed to be about our existence after death, but it is also supposed to give the reader a sense of knowing what life is like on the streets. I spent some times living in the ghetto and in the homeless shelter and well... it sorta inspired me to write this. One the darkness covers all, the night takes hold of her own law. Shapeless figures all around, creeping softly they make no sound. Withered hands tug at a young boys soul, picking at it until he's not whole. When I was only a young child I was a member of a gang. I was pulled in out of nowhere. It's the only way I could survive while my mother was out working and I was home alone. They wore me down picking at me, ripping me apart until my soul was so tattered I thought it could never be whole again. I had become so numb I was living inside myself. I was dead, and I had no control of my life. That is what I was trying to capture in this poem. That and the fact that people blindly follow... even to the point they no longer know why it is they believe what they do. People only accept what others portray as the truth. It's sad, but it's the truth.
