A first-hand attempt at poetry

Upon thy breast, I lay;
In this night of darkness, staring at the bay
Must I get to sleep – for I’m tired at best;
Sleep and sleep, never to wake up with any haste;
With ever-lasting agony, this sleep of mine
Brought to rest – this soul adamantine.

Can behold no longer – nor be able to speak,
Nor ask nor do – neither help can t seek,
Ask for Justice – the wounds await
Unheard, unattended and unsought by cruel fate –
Therein I wish, this sleep of mine
Brings to rest, this soul adamantine!

They say the Creator lies above,
Preaching the message of friendship, help and love,
Teaching the masses to be honest and be good,
Wherein by justice this globe be ruled –
Justice – that’s the word desired by this soul of mine
Brought to rest by deep injustice adamantine!

Suffering arises out of sin – that’s what the books say –
Those small children – homeless and helpless they lay
Writhed in pain – hungry and hollow;
No help came from any God that I know!
Handicapped, this soul of mine
Brought to rest – by suffering adamantine.

And there I see people happy and gay
Sinners with the glories, ask if I may –
What sin did these children commit
What justice to this globe may befit
What kind of place are we in
People selfish, morally shallow and mean,
No food to feed, no home to shelter,
No one to parent, no one to bother
No one to feel – only them to suffer
So this is justice that we’re after!
The Lord if He may, answer this question of mine
No one can bring peace to this soul adamantine.