Good poem or not?
These waters,
these cold,
lonley waters,
what secrets do they hide?
What cries lie stifled in the waves?
What memories lay burried in sand?
My flashlight beam,
shines on something,
that is not the oceans water,
this is what I come here for.
The Titanic.
Her once proud bow now weary,
forlorn by the oceans torrent.
Her once grand rooms demolished,
by years of beatings and tare.
All around me,
lay her innards,
her sweet memories,
barley clinging to their life.
A brass bed frame,
a china plate,
a siver spoon.
Do their users haunt these waters,
or are they alive,
shaken with the memory?
My beam hits something white,
the porcelin head of a doll.
Her eyes empty,
black trenches,
already incased in a sea of darkness.
Her black hair like ratty sea-weed,
old and worn,
her rosy cheeks and pale pink dress,
have seen much hardship.
Where was the girl who once held this doll close?
Drowned in the ocean’s icy grasp,
or living her life.
I loved it. 
I wish I could write as well as you!
Help me?
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