ONE DAY AT A TIME
224,339 poems read
MAN-MADE TOOLS
Ink from my pen will not forever leak,
Lead from my pencil will taper some day,
Some verses can still be spoken out loud,
While others preserved for some other day.
I look around and feel I have too much,
Material things made of wood and such,
Most of which have had plenty of usage,
Maintained in their place of designation.
Crickets in the night are not heard as much,
Man sleeps, only to awaken to a typical day,
Soon he will hear the motors of cars and such,
Starting the day, moving on their scheduled way.
Cities filled with air and noise pollution,
Become an ozone of death, yet still puzzling.
Each day is somehow crushed by given information,
Of man dying many deaths, and abuse of the living.
Generation of generations of man's existence,
Playing roles of the untold, some with clown faces.
Reality is lost to the realization of life's worth,
For mankind not often visions validity of failure.
Obtaining more ink and lead for my writing tools,
Only to write the repetitious narrated narratives.
Often words are changed to protect the innocent,
Oftentimes not, for they know not what they do.
Yana Petkov
10th August 2004