Banging Playground

WARNING: read at your own cringe. I made this poem when I was 11 years old (2007) for an English assignment on the War era. I was notoriously terrible at poems, but this one was my favourite, so I'd like to keep it.

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.