Okay, this time I decided to write a poem. This concept (mainly the title) has been buzzing in my brain for a little while, and I knew I wanted to write a poem. However, just a warning, I am not a great poet. In fact, you may notice that often the only really poetic thing might be the rhymes, since I decided to toss the idea of having a consistent meter. So don't expect anything great.
This will likely be the only poem I post for a while, if I post any up here at all after this. Hopefully, you enjoy it.
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I Know Why the Angels Cry
Here I sit in church this day,
Listening and watching worshippers sway.
I try to smile and sing like them,
Though doubts and sorrow from my heart do stem.
And while these singers’ hearts do praise,
And sing along with musical clichés,
I know something they do not;
Something they’d rather leave un-thought:
I know why the angels cry.
There sits a girl in an alleyway cold
Enslaved in so many ways untold.
With drugs, reality she tries to ignore.
When she runs out, she sells her body for more.
When she runs out, she sells her body for more.
Though no one looks past how she appears,
Unseen hands hold her unshed tears.
Some use her for cash,
Others see her as trash,
And silently the angels cry.
He sits in his room, the lights all dim
And hopes his parents won’t notice him.
While they slam doors, argue, and fight,
On computer screens he looks for delight.
But what he finds poisons his soul
Until searching for pleasure is his only goal.
Art at its worst;
It can’t quench his thirst.
Mournfully, the angels cry.
A mother sits by a hospital bed,
Clenching her fist at the disease that spreads
Through her child, so young, so small.
She’d do anything to take away it all.
If she listens to what the doctors said,
Very soon her daughter might be dead.
She bows her head, she sobs.
She questions God while her heart throbs.
All unseen, the angels cry.
He lives alone in an empty house,
Ever since he lost his spouse.
To death? Oh no, she did not die.
All she did was say goodbye.
To his job, she said, was he truly married,
And she released him, though it made her heart bleed.
His hard heart now revealed,
Can it become soft and healed?
This question the angels cry.
Now I know I must turn back my eyes
Inward, and puncture my own disguise.
I am a fraud, a hypocrite, a fake,
Building a mask with every lie I make.
Smiling constantly, never showing need,
Yet inside I rage, I burn, I bleed.
This lying tongue, this spinner of tales,
Will it ever tell truth, or is it damned to fail?
I bow my head as the angels cry.
A man there is hanging on a tree.
His agony, His heartfelt cries;
Oh, with each one my own heart dies.
But when he says, “It is finished”,
I find glory undiminished.
And though now I can see
That tears of limitless joy they be,
I know why the angels cry.
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