Hobbled by the
sun, and laid
prostrate by
days of
degenerate
behavior.
Days of
nothingness,
and worse.
Only writing
could save me.

Poor and lonely.
No warm woman to
hold.
No *****.
No home.
But, I had my
writing.
It let the light in,
and buffered me from
the crowds of
scarecrows with sewn
on smiles.

Writing keeps me
immortal and kills
the pain.
It soothes the
mice lost in
the maze, and
brings the stray cat
home to a house where
he's safe.
Writing is the
pillow that keeps
my head up, and
my heart engaged.

Human nature: fault of our demise, ideas of peace we genocide;
Premediated suicide, as are the thoughts of killing myself for
The livelihood of someone younger living out their dreams

Peace isn’t cried out for, until the cries of war unhurriedly die out
To love one another, is to have something we all hate together
A hate so hot to hold onto, it could boil an egg in my hand
While the bags of my eyes carry a lot- in their sagging clouds
Before rain; tears in the eyes of man showing no mercy

Governments neglect you, hiring a river in the way of
Drowning sailors; strict kings, ruling over a collapsing sea
Men believing fortunes live with them, while moving their tents
In a desert’s empty heart, scorpions join in to sting your naked feet
Ruling the world; in the freshly turned soil- the Sweat of Humanity
Still man themselves, are as divided as that soil meeting its erosion
Mothers feet are wet, dripping prayers, crying for their lost sons
Fathers hide in secret places, to mourn over their widowed daughters

What is the idea of what they call, “peace,” while guns are the
Answer to their questions; as the devil quietly pulls the triggers
Our blood shouts out, slicked across the streets- crying for peace
But man takes it as an offence, uttered from a child’s lips.

Peace is irrelevant, rhetorical, paradoxical,
But when it comes to the griefs of war, peace is inevitable.