My hands have brought and done so many things
Remembrance of such foul acts do still
My heart, its beat doth flow and softly sings
Laments that my bare hands aim to fulfill
Soft muscles tense as pain breaks into bone
An ample, swift, and nimble ploy enhance
Your fear as I step in on you alone
The face of one who loves as I advance
Now I would dare to state the hubris claim
Of those who sought to steal my love again
My hands are poor, a sign for such acclaim!
A death, I caused, can only bring them pain!
My love was pure, and now my spirit free
My hands can’t hurt if the victim is me
-
Author:
Tom Wood (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 14th, 2019 00:39
- Comment from author about the poem: I had to write this for an English class, but I really liked how it turned out, so I thought I would share it. I've never really tried Iambic pentameter, but here it is :)
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 41
Offline)
Comments2
A fine write Tom. I'm being fussy, but I think it should be 'its' in Verse 1 , Line 3, not 'it's'. The latter means 'it is'. I don't only want to pick out that typo(?), as the poem has good flow and lilt to it, I think.
You are right! My bad, sometimes those pesky apostrophes sneak themselves in the wrong places, hehe
A first class poem in both form and perceptive imagery Tom - - thank you for sharing it.
Thank you for reading it, I'm glad you enjoyed it 🙂
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.