My First Amendment, girl.

Iofur

My First Amendment, girl.

Do not attempt to silence
her voice!
There is no muting the one,
that screams, freedom!

My sister, we are two halves of a
burning soul.
My brother, you are the fool,
played like the blues, it's so sad.
Father, even sinners have souls, do
not discard them like dead flowers,
please.
Mother, does not dance anymore, she has
been turned away like an unwanted hound
passed the prime, the prime of youth.

The fields burn with anguish,
the soil no virgin, scarred under a pretty dress
with flowers on it.
The same one that hangs in her closet, collecting dust and forgetting things.
Not so trivial things, more like memories, tea
stained pages of a classic novel, 'Oliver Twist'
I believe. She wonders,
how they really speak in London, so as to add
some authenticity to her imagination.

Sister, why do you not write anymore, are you really tired?
Brother stringing your old guitar
play me something beautiful, like the wind!
My father is a cross-shaped stone, naked, covered by the land, no flowers.
My mother is a ghost, the gust that excites my old
net curtains, breathing life
into this drab parlour.

The fields are quenched now, black and cracked
like these old hands.
Do not attempt to silence my voice!

___________________________________________

Comments, criticisms, questions? All appreciated

Kink

I really like that, it has so much depth!

it full of emotion that everyone can relate to in one way or another!

TheVerBal1

Iofur wrote:

My First Amendment, girl.

Do not attempt to silence
her voice!
There is no muting the one,
that screams, freedom! ((<<<< a bit better punctuation wuda given this one more power... nice tho... "There's NO muted this one! Scream! FREEDOM!"))

My sister, we are two halves of a
burning soul.
My brother, you are the fool,
played like the blues, it's so sad.((<<< i didnt like ur word chioce for the first part of this stanza... sad is such a plain word... burning soul... tiny bit cliche...))
Father, even sinners have souls, do
not discard them like dead flowers,
please.(((<<< this a cool ass trio of lines... I like the punc. and the message of dead flowers... especially when U continue into the the next stanza where U tell us ur dad is dead)))
Mother, does not dance anymore, she has
been turned away like an unwanted hound
passed the prime, the prime of youth.

The fields burn with anguish,
the soil no virgin, scarred under a pretty dress
with flowers on it.
The same one that hangs in her closet, collecting dust and forgetting things.
Not so trivial things, more like memories, tea
stained pages of a classic novel, 'Oliver Twist'
I believe. She wonders,
how they really speak in London, so as to add
some authenticity to her imagination.

Sister, why do you not write anymore, are you really tired?
Brother stringing your old guitar ((if U took the R from stringing I wuda liked the line more))
play me something beautiful, like the wind!
My father is a cross-shaped stone, naked, covered by the land, no flowers.(class imagery and message.. depth))
My mother is a ghost, the gust that excites my old
net curtains, breathing life
into this drab parlour. ((<<<like that trio a lot))

The fields are quenched now, black and cracked
like these old hands.
Do not attempt to silence my voice!


___________________________________________

Comments, criticisms, questions? All appreciated

Overall... I liked it, some word chioces I dint like, overall, pretty dam good...