There's a Writer in the House: A Day in the Life Sunday
/There's a writer in the house and by the look of the kid's poem below, it's not me. All this from the kid I can't get out of bed in the morning. Go figure.
Predator to Prey
My mouth waters at the scent of food as I look at the town square.
I catch the eye of a young boy,
and for a long time,
hold his stare.
He starts to come toward me,
and I inch away from him.
I should not let him touch me,
he doesn’t know where I’ve been.
I look into his eyes so innocent and pure.
He,
unlike me,
does not deserve to ever be on death’s door.
He reminds me of myself when I was young,
before I knew what a terrible thing I had done.
I’ve shared it with no one,
for no one deserves to be poisoned by those thoughts,
so no one will know how many secret wars I have fought.
SLAM! I’m brought back to reality by the sound of footsteps,
and look up to see the carrier of all my regrets.
The boy runs away in fright,
for no one should ever have to see
such a sight.
Tall acrimonious figure covered in black,
like a statement that’s an opinion or fact.
Not death or life.
Not dark or bright.
If you take life from another,
they never truly leave you.
They haunt you in a form that
is always depressed and blue.
They seek to destroy you,
they know no love or guilt.
So when you die heaven does not embrace like a warm quilt.
You are stuck on the earth,
dragged down by sin.
You’re swimming in horror until it gets to you from the outside in.
The hole where his face should be
stared into my eyes,
and by his reaction,
I knew he would bring another horrid surprise.
He searched a second for the boy,
picked him up
and flicked him at me like a broken toy.
Then it was it,
I was tired of having no say.
He’d better watch out.
The predator becomes the prey.
How about we show the kid some blogging, writing, rhyming, deep thoughts for a 'tween, love your poem . . . love?
