My life
Harrow International Hong Kong, Georgia Smith, Poetry: Group 3
Through the dry, liquid mounds trudging along,
In my mind, listening to the sad song,
Playing over and over, when will it stop?
My life, like a clock, running out of time.
The sun, beating down on my neck,
It’s glaring down on my helpless body laughing,
Enjoying my death,
My eyes are covered with teardrops of sweat,
My tongue trying desperately to grasp at any liquid,
None comes to my precious tongue.
My life, like a jack in a box, about to go pop goes the weasel.
I stare at the life, forever shifting ground,
It’s not solid it’s inhumane,
As the wind blows a person is drags way, far away from here,
Oh, how lucky they are,
The tiny people slither and seep into the gaps of my toes,
For shelter from the evil, laughing sun,
My life, like a diver, slowly running out of air.
I grab my water bottle.
Liquid comes, no,
My throat scratches with every swallow,
My eyes burn with every blink,
My feet sink in the poor, mourning souls waiting for wind,
I fall to my knees, in the warm soft golden, pure human beings,
There bodies being roasted, slowly baking in the sun’s mighty glare,
I give up,
My life, like a string about to snap,
SNAP, the string went.
I went down.
