In a postapocalyptic world
a child never forget
the sound of bullets
killing his friends.
In that kind of planet
nothing have sense,
just exist hate
and for love not pray.
Kill is a form to express
when everything is wrong
in that sick world.
Death is something to accept,
survival is a way to live,
steal is for get
the most important things.
Environment is disgusting,
the lands no have life,
the air repulsive
and oceans are dead.
For nobody is important
that nothing have sense,
'cause that world
came to an end.
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Autor:
Jhon Carlo (Seudónimo) (
Offline) - Publicado: 24 de agosto de 2013 a las 14:23
- Comentario del autor sobre el poema: This is my vision of an unrealistic world. Regards to those who read me ^^
- Categoría: Sin clasificar
- Lecturas: 82
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: El Hombre de la Rosa
Offline)
Comentarios1
The powerful force of your great looks in your poem poetry friend Jhon Carlo
Greetings of love and friendship
Críspulo your friend
Thanks my friend Críspulo
Regards
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