Dr Samantha Pendleton
Engineer of data, ontologies, and clusters. Thrower of pots, controllers, and eggs.
Banging Playground
Read at your own cringe - I made this poem when I was 11 years old (2007) for English class (I was notoriously terrible at poems).
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.
I've edited this poem a little since to make it grammar good.