OK, I had just finished my first poem called “The Sound”, and i had wondered to myself the lack of a fan fiction poem thread/topic for all of you pixarteers to post some more creative knowledge in line. So, post away any of your On or Off-Topic poems, replies are desirable here!
(here is my poem, The Sound, in it’s entirety.)
I hear it everyday,
As I walk down the streets, down the loud streets,
Down the same streets which makes that same noise,
That I’ve heard,
Down the streets.
I see them stir, go in faster paces than I could ever imagine,
whizzing right pass me, as the noise cannot be unnerved.
Even as they shut their breath, their presence still lingers,
Still waiting, to be heard,
Down the streets.
And as I walk away down these streets,
in the calmer places, the calmer places,
I can see an even bigger example of this sound I can’t escape,
Despite the large, fast objects not in my presence,
The sound it makes,
Down those streets.
The building, the smoke bellowing out from the highest peak of the building,
Hearing the metal clank, the machines working,
The sound driving.
The people with their silent faces, driving the metal day by day,
Continuously,
Beside those streets.
I want to escape, but life is this way now,
The bitter metal, clanking against one another, the sound driving as usual,
My heart dying, the beautiful sound of it muted away by the deafening tone of the
Building, making it’s dreadful sound,
Around the streets.
I plug my ears, I yell out loudly, trying to kill this noise,
But it never goes away, even if I do this forever,
I could not do it forever, as forever isn’t long enough to kill the sound,
The sound,
Down the streets.
I try to remember the sound of the trees, the birds and the wildlife,
Cheering vigorously their chanty tunes,
The only sound that I’ve become enchanted from,
Away from the streets.
But, the sound of the industry still critiques a tune in us,
The sound that we love now, of smells and odors and assembly lines,
The buildings, unanimous and unlimited,
Multiplying,
On the streets.
As I run, I cannot find the birds, the trees, the wildlife that I was so fond of,
As the industry killed them, of their physical body and of their speech,
Dying away,
On the streets.
I collapse, losing my breath, as I can’t hear it among the burning sound,
The sound, burning my tongue and suffocating my lungs with pestilence,
Decaying away,
On the streets.
The attempts of remembering the sound I once knew, now torn in vein and miscued,
Corrupted and defiled, intoxicated and filed, forever in our lives,
The same tune, the same sound, the same business,
rotting away,
All the streets.
My life is dead now, as even it cannot be heard by the new death of the sound,
The industry, the cars, the machines, picking away my body,
As I rot, alongside the menacing tone of the industry,
Of the sound,
Of the streets.