Do not tell me to hold the world in high
regards, do not tell me to try to save it
when I would rather watch it burn
so that the pain and suffering die with it.

I watch blind hatred throw innocence
against the wall in the shriek of a bullet,
I watch life splatter against the bathroom
tiles like paint. Like words on a blank
white page. Red. It is all red,

red: like the color of strawberries;
and the sound of the gun is like
the sound of thunder before a glorious
lightning severs the sky from itself.

I hear the screams of the 49
whenever I open my mouth to laugh.
I see death in life now.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed