Every pace (within the race of knotholes) lies a man in corpse corporal green, smudged. His breath, adept in icy froths begins to choke on yester-smoke: the dust of ashen asians/eastern shrouds. Too long have they fought. Too long have they jumped in front of the fronts of range rovers, meshed in crisscross khaki netting. Too wide the rivers of blood seep through the watermained streets My eyes cry silently in my head as i watch from a distant me. Inside. Foreign. Helplessly the figure i am within sees the eyes of terrored teens, as they stand the bullets, stand their ground. What lunacy.
This is a good read about an important topic, good job One thing, though. I think some punctuation could help set the rhythm and pace a bit better.
lozi.... why is it i love your poems most? this was just brilliant, you have some serious talent. very inspiring to me. keep writing because you make this one girl react. beautiful.
rafaela-*blush* thanks raf it's nice to have a fan! kittenx-cheers for reading it trippin-thanks for the critique, i need to explain the poem more i guess: i was trying for a stumbling blind disjointed feel, making it awkward and numblike. did i manage to do that?
