my poem

6:02 p.m. EST

Halloween spawned the night, the night spawned the kids.

the kids spawned the question, the answer is where it begins.

one spawns a weapon, the weapon spawns your attention.

From the left spawns a blow that shows you the ground...

a thousand places spawn pain, 

in which spawns a spark when you get up and turn around.

They rode off down the street, so you sit back down on the concrete

the spark spawns lost anger, anger spawns hate.

the hate spawns a deep meaning, but you fail to relate.

Now spawns your phone.

you call for a ride, but no one is home.

the second gets answered, and your on your way back.

the meaning slowly returns, but all it can do is remind

you that the last memory you can spawn is the time.