File: 1319674694995.jpg (295.63 KB, 800x684, alone.jpg)
No.56
Would poetry be considered literature? Anyway, here is a poem I wrote. Constructive criticism please. Also please tell me what you think it means, I want to know how it comes across.
Hell is not quite as warm
As I thought it'd be
In fact its quite cold
And very, very lonely
You could even say
That the Sun's lazy, gentle rays
Aren't what causes Earth's warmth
Each and every day
But the smiling faces of those
Who walk upon the ground
Cause the planets hospitable
Heat to endless abound
But thats when I realized
Hell isn't underground
No, the reason its so freezing
Is because there no smiles are found
For I alone know where hell is found
Its found in the corner
Where the people don't make a sound
If one were to speak up
And put in his solemn word
The best he could hope for
Is not to have been heard
Even outcast and beggars
Look down upon me
I, who know not my crime
Is avoided so carefully
If someone would stoop down
To tell me why I'm here
I'd escape hell for just ten seconds
To give an unheard cheer
Is my face so repugnant
My gait and talk so badly pungent
That you all won't even speak to me
To cast your harsh words or sad pity
So here I am all alone
The walls, hearts, and faces made of stone
And I'll put it out very plainly
This cause for this I cannot see
But I'm beaten daily by the fact
That not a single person has my back
My arrival to hell somehow began
At the same time I realized
No one calls me friend
Also, the format ruins the lines, but the next line starts wherever there is a capital.