Bri Mar Poems

My name is Critique, as a spirit I'm cold,
Your future is bleak, when I have you told,
What I say is true, in my own mind,
Though I may slag you off, retributions unkind.
...

When you're bereaved,
You feel aggrieved,
You ask the question, why me?
Though they've passed, memories can be retrieved,
...

Are the majority blind,
To what's going on,
Or are we designed,
To believe every con,
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I wish that I were ten years old,
I desire, to be a young man,
For my future, I need to be bold,
To reach it, I'll do all I can.
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If there is a creator,
Or perhaps a dictator,
I've got to ask, where are you now,
This current pandemic,
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The British tradition,
A stiff upper lip,
As the corrupt politician,
Shoots from the hip,
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If everyone were black, would racism exist?
Would the colour white, ever be missed?
From hating each other, would we desist?
Could love be what this would sow?
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Committing barbarous crimes,
Brings on dangerous times,
For destruction, some develop a thirst,
Do we just sit back?
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If living is heaven,
Then dying is hell,
Your spirit I'll leaven,
By this tale I'll tell.
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Life never bores,
I've too many chores,
In the end, I will get my way,
Be it devils or gods,
...