Our world cries out in sorrow again
People dying on lonely streets
And blood is shed and spirits crushed
It seems that history repeats.
Would that we could see the truth
Of all that’s good within our sight
That we would see our own great wealth
And help to ease another’s plight.
If we could see and do all that
And in ourselves we understood
Would we not find ourselves at peace
And know at least we’d done some good.
©Joe Wilson – The world cries…2014
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Sitting at home writing writing WRITING and the words dont flow
I sit while this muse doesn’t show.
I want to be unique I want to be original.
make this poem biblical.
I think in iambic.
And still the sirens in my skull stay silent of their sweet symphonies.
Trying to use figurative language,
Like a new born baby trying to use its new legs.
Putting my brain under an incubater,
Trying to force hatch ideas like eggs
Sitting in my room listening to slam
about to slam my head on the ground
bam bam bam!
Maybe write about corrupt uncle sam?
Try to be a shooting star and break the mold
But mold is gross
So I stay inside and remain quiet
And pretend that one day my slam might start a riot
Could I start a rebellion
And while fighting deppresion,
Could fight this opression,
of not being able to write this poem.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC