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How would you love me,
Would you be honest and true,
Or will you get bored without things to do,

How would you love me after the ***,
Would the calls slow down and ignore my text,
I've been there before when the battery has died,
Just to find out my lover has lied,

How would you love me,
Are you good with unpacking,
Past hurt and pain we carry as baggage,

A word of advice as I keep it straight,
Love will fail if we can't communicate.

How would you love me?
Coagulated blood dried out from the sun, footprints pressed into the mud from a night on the run, chased and ravaged, pressed against a tree with emotions gutted.

Mutilated and dying, I'm laying under falling stars, saturated skies and underlying scars, every conversation with you feels like being run over by a highway full of cars.

Blood screaming from a cautourised wound travels farther than your ability to listen to reason, wide eyed, your pasteurized white eyes seem cold but searing like the flesh of a steaming heathen.

Necrosis sets in on the heaping pile of me drudged upon the roots of my personification, watch the black blood slipping through the dirt like molasses as it climbs over your teeth and grips the lips before it passes, blood loss is creating a hallucination.

Watch as I become hollow from your cannibalistic lifestyle. Your desperation, human flesh you defiled, mindless separation, our family's bodies stuffed in a corner and piled, you became a Wendigo, a wicked transmorgification.
Yellow people were everywhere....
their eyes were thin and their bodies were scrawny

A ******* strolled by me....
she promised me a good time
$200 for 1 hour
and $400 for 2
Oral costed extra....

A man was eating octopus
next to him, another man was eating a dog
he claimed it taste like chicken...

gravel kissed my feet,
and a M14 cuddle with my hands
a pack of Skittles snuggled in my pocket
some cigarettes and canteen full of whiskey
also accompanied me....

I smashed the leaves with black boots
and camouflage married the trees

A body stared at me
a star shaped hole through his head
two kids burned to ash,
and a wife with her throat slit laid next to him

No tears were shed.....

A Vietcong with his arms shot off
he coughed up blood...
he whispered, but the whisper was inaudible
I put a bullet through his chest...

No tears were shed....

a good friend of mine...
stepped on a landmine
his body went every which way
a arm went left
a torso went right
and his head went backwards...

No tears were shed....

My unit entered a abandoned building
they saw a young girl.... her clothes were ripped,
her screams echoed, five men took turns with her...

my M14, loaded, five bullets, silence
and a pool of blood.....

no tears were shed...
 Jan 2016 Sydney Carter
R
we write when we're at our weakest
we write when we've been cut open
we write when we're bleeding
we write when we're dying inside

Not all those who write are sad,
but all sad people write.
You may not agree with this, but generally, it is true.
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