A poem is a wound, turned to words.

The killing fields
right here at home
are somehow different
from those that we've known
no longer war
on foreign fields
but there's a body count
this new war yields
students and teachers
professors and preachers
murders committed
by horrible creatures
are there no answers
to the question why
these monsters keep killing
causing mothers to cry
life is not ours to take
nor a game that we play
when will this madness end
will there come such a day
a day of beautiful peace
love shared man to man
the tools of killing laid down
would be a wonderful plan
but I know it's a dream
one that can never come true
and that thought and the stress
leaves me ever so blue

I'm just an empty coffee cup, with nothing left in me and all of the stains from the past.

I have no one,
so I run back to the ones who don't care the most.