Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Pauline Celerio Jul 2020
Knives aimed, thundered voices;
Feeble thoughts and shallow reasons;
Blinders on, deafened ears;
Fragile freedom on her knees.
Shame on your bloodied hands!
Shame on your hollow conscience!
This is where it begins--the depths of her despair;
In muffled breaths of dead air.
A sad day for press freedom in our country.
Anita Feb 2019
He ran out of things to say
How could he run out of things to talk about?
His tongue, was drying out
Another sixty seconds
He wouldn't even be able to make a sound
I'm scared, he's scared
Dead air, Dead air, Dead air
You could **** a lot of things
And nobody would look twice
Dead air, Dead air
He was still grinning
Does he not know?
I'm dead inside
Home no longer a saftey zone
He comes
I'm here, I'm yours, I'm sick
I just wanted to be famous
Just a little poem, written as an assignment from my teacher

— The End —