31/08/2017
Note: I made this poem when I was 11 years old in 2007, during English class, for the War era
Banging Playground
It's foggy, we're drowsy, with the sound of bangs;
We're crawling around the best we can.
Shouting, exploding, and pushing to the limit;
It's raining mud, the sun seems timid.
Sweaty, dizzy, and confused;
The youths are rising and all bruised.
Smoggy gas shading a purple and green light,
Reaching for my gas mask as my chest becomes tight.
Blinded by fog, he’s having a fit;
We're all struggling in this gas pit.
Short of breath, he was found;
Clutching his chest, falling to the ground.
Wagon pulls up, and bodies thrown;
Some pray for him as he still groans.
Spitting out blood, the spasms perish down;
Wishing I saved him, there's no more sound.
A man of honour and my friend,
Unfortunately now, it's the end.
Because of me, he's not alive;
I'm no hero, he didn’t survive.
Blood everywhere and ear banging sounds,
It's no fun, this is the devil's playground.
It's been years since that day,
I still cry at night, calling for mayday.