Death.
The wondrous, wanton woman,
Taking time and trouble;
And there, standing by the scaffold
Is ME.
Looking around,
I see grief-stricken men,
Women, mothers, with tear-streaked cheeks,
Children, whose faces are pale with fright,
Because of (it's what they believed) ME.
They came; oh yes, they did.
The ones who wanted me
To die painfully,
To become dust, to burn
To cover up THEIR actions.
Their arguments were entertaining;
Listening to the truly guilty decide an innocent's fate;
Hung by the neck, a quick loss of life,
Or burn, until ashes are all that remain.
Honestly, I DIDN'T care.
All I care for is DEATH.
***
A/N : Hey!
This.
This is an effort by a ninth-grader me. My maternal grandpa liked it(a feat in itself), so this one's reeeeeaaaaaally special to me.
Constructive criticism appreciated.
D❤
YOU ARE READING
Just So
PoetryPoems that mean nothing and everything. Poems that hit you in ways you wouldn't realize. Poems that are dear to my heart, that come from my heart. Poems that I've written keeping in mind all that's there in my life.
