The battlegrounds
of the past
are empty now.
The brave now
Scarred by
the same power
They swore to protect
In the end.

Was it worth it?
Ending all those lives
Breaking the minds
of those you claimed
to love.

Was it worth it to watch
them leave for
the last time?
To watch as they were
puppeteered
as pawns of

“FREEDOM”
Shouted the Man in the chair,
chanted the revolutionaries.
but really everything
was to a self serving end

Only
In death may
my freedom
come to me

staring down
the barrel
of his pistol
or seeing
my reflection
in his knife

Why is life?
Called by poets
‘Pain with no end’
‘Disease without a cure’
Maybe It’s just
Misunderstood too
A question without an answer
A tired contender
in a ring of pain

‘why is life?’
Muttered the Stoners
and Addicts,
Eager to take
another sip,
another puff,
another pill.
‘Maybe under
The neon trip of
LSD and
DPH and
Anger and
Confusion,
There’s something more
To this thing called life.’

Why is life that is
Described by the parents
and the civilians
as ‘Precious’ and ‘Beautiful,
When I still see the scars
Dripping with
the blood I spilled
and tears I cried
dripping with the rage
That they forced on me
With just a faint
Memory
of Why.

‘I know!’
‘Why is life!’
Cried out by the pastor
and the priest
to be,
‘Impure and tormented’,
‘A messy, infected wound’,
‘A sore that must be cleansed
and bleached’
When the very systems
that swore to cleanse evil
kills those who do good
and condemn those
who simply express
who they are.

“why is life?”
I muttered,
bent over the
bathroom sink
hands stained
red
from the pills I took
to erase the pain
of life

Sometimes I'm an apathist,
Infrequently an anarchist,
Mostly an apologetic aesthete,
And almost never myself.

Whatever...f$@k it...sorry...hello.

He was
an arterial
driver where
he'd  flee
his schlep
to accompany
wires but
hire them
and direly
with an
accordance that
oppression dearly
their navels  
in latter
times of
inca summers
love begotten