Poets logo

Do Something

by Charles Freeman 4 years ago in sad poetry
Report Story

Life

Hope

A beautiful place my home was, a horrid dream my hearth became, fire falling from the sky like rain, blood pouring out of thousands, riddle with pain, so many lay there, shredded, broken, slain, no one would remember them, no one would fight for their names, who would care if a few more children burned in the flames, murdered by the bombs they dropped from the myriad of planes that came from where you sit, where you walk, funded by those people you vote for, people you trust, filled with greed and lust, killing unarmed humans is an absolute must, even though it may seem criminal and quite unjust, in the end, the cupidity of man, will turn us all into dust, where is the love that was propagated by those all over the world, fallacies told to keep everyone else blind, for if you truly looked deeper into time, there'd be many more bodies to find, there'd be many more lies you could hear, spreading hate and fear throughout the land, to make the weak weary and mad, confused and sad, it's much easier to control a population that thinks they have no soul, stuck in cages, told that they're worthless and given no food, shunned from freedom, we never care, we never see them, shunned from living a life filled with felicity and elation, they beg for peace and salvation, only to be shot and killed, for speaking the truth of their will, only to be imprisoned and circumscribed by the corrupt who were swindled and bribed to destroy what peace was left to feel, slowly this place is percolating into a blackhole only filled with nothing, soon we will all wonder and ask, why didn't we do something, why didn't we save more lives, why didn't we send more help, why couldn't we find serenity in a time of pure hatred and violence, why did we turn away, why did we stay silent while so many bled, while so many starved from not being fed, while so many slept on sand and rocks, never to feel the comfort of a bed, why couldn't we save all the lost and dead, that is what will be said, while we gorge ourselves fat and sleep in our comfy beds, while we break our bread, while the streets of others run red, why couldn't we do anything, that is what will be said.

sad poetry

About the author

Charles Freeman

Spreading the truth about our own realities to one another opens up a new page in our history. One filled with the mellifluous sounds of laughter, the warm feelings of love and the power of caring. So I, will spread my truth.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2022 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.