The Sound of Childhood
Bells.
Ring deafeningly.
With means of girls and boys.
Underneath the original singing.
Like bells we were once new and brass.
Then reality kicks you in the ass.
The metal rusts as you walk from class to class.
Subtly the tone turning into sass.
As bells ringing quiets our childhood stops.
We grow old and the sound is no more.
Going on without music is a bore.
Though some remain the childish pop.
Most end up dead on the floor.
👁 2💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.