he asked to undress my mind before my body
to know my 4 am thoughts before his fingers traced my hidden skin
he touches me across oceans; drowns himself in all of my layers
whispers that he wants to visit all of the worlds inside of me
slowly, for he knows the wounds are still healing
but he kisses all of your scars
and I hardly think of you at all

The artist paints yellow, pink, and red
roses on her canvas,
glints of blue at the edges
dripping and spilling.
Something for spring, she says.
She gently smiles,
her hand rubbing
the swelling curve
of her belly,
just a black shirt and ragged blue jeans
covering another kind of canvas.
Underneath
something else entirely
waits to bloom.

Mad politicians threaten nuclear war
While madder religious maniacs
Send suicide bombers to **** and destroy.
Bombers brainwashed into believing
That vestal virgins await them in heaven.

Children starve
While adults fight
For bits of land.

A world divided.
Plagued by hate and distrust.
Governments killing their own people
Except when tied by nameless bureaucrats.

Forests and wildlife being cleared away
For the sake of gold or drugs
Or other means of making Money.

It’s a mad, mad world.
In which everyone is born to die.
What use is that?
Perhaps already we are living in
Hell.
Just Saying.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 1\5\2017. 2 new lines added 8\5\17.