Hurricane

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Hurricane

I think everything became distorted
that one simple, ordinary day.
There was nothing we could do,
and there was nothing we could say.

It came creeping like a ticking time bomb;
the horrific demon in disguise.
It devastated many houses,
it claimed hundreds of lives.

Trees and plants were uprooted,
Windows and doors were smashed.
Some people attempted to escape,
but it was all happening so fast.

I will never forget that feeling
of when I thought it might be you.
I constantly repeated to myself:
‘There’s no way it could be true’.

Gradually the calms returned
and many tried to rebuild their lives.
I still sat there waiting for you
unable to fall asleep at night

I can’t describe the joy that I felt,
on one other, ordinary day.
When I got the message saying ‘I’m fine’
and that was all you needed to say.
Last edited by Prospekt42 on Tue Apr 07, 2009 9:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.
this is all I've ever wanted from life




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Greetings, Prospekt!
This poem is wonderful, and very moving. There is a lot of feeling put into this one, and I think this is important so that the reader can see this from your point of view easily.
The rhyme scheme is well written, and each stanza flows flawlessly.
The only error I can see is that you've spelt window wrong in the third verse. It's just a little typo though!
Well done and keep writing! :D

Moo
Last edited by Moo on Wed Dec 17, 2008 8:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“Poetry is old, ancient, goes back far. It is among the oldest of living things. So old it is that no man knows how and why the first poems came.”

--Carl Sandburg




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That is truly beautiful Prospekt!
I don't know if the hurricane is just a hurricane, but I do know that the simile of a hurricane is a very powerful one. What you made was an excellent metaphor for the anxiety and pressure we all feel sometimes, and then the relief when everything sorts out.
Very nice.
"Live as you were to die tomorrow, learn as you were to live forever" -Ghandi



The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
— Sylvia Plath