Details |
Annabeth Chase Poem
The cold, throbbing lump
Pulsing in my gut
Pulling me back
I wish I had control
Rather than this terror
I wish I had assurance
For my own trembling hands
What courage I muster
In the face of aversion
I give up to my own nightmare
For what comfort i have
Has all but left.
Copyright © Annabeth Chase | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Annabeth Chase Poem
We, the fighters, when?
Us, innocent men
Ordered to fight,
filling with fright.
We can’t pretend,
or even defend.
After the order,
there is only disorder
Bullets in our head.
Down amongst the dead.
Down, we were called.
Down, we were pulled.
Down to the dead.
Final tears shed
Copyright © Annabeth Chase | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Annabeth Chase Poem
Twisting, blistering, heat,
Can’t breathe.
Snakes, turning, chasing.
Panic enters.
Biting, snatching, snarling,
Falling, sinking.
Struggling for breath.
One chance to leave,
Escape.
Copyright © Annabeth Chase | Year Posted 2015
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