We blame ourselves
not knowing why
there is blood in their eyes.

We wear red welts
and bluish bruises
but hurt even more inside.

Is it their lies or ours
that justify the scars
on our still beating hearts?

In comes nose runs,
and endless fountains of tears,
with an eternity of fear
that says please don’t let me
live this way.

We internalize their mistakes
looking out at the world,
believing that we are weak,
so we do not speak of such things.

Sometimes, we come out alive
on the other side of that life.
Sometimes, their rage becomes ours.
If we are lucky we learn
to take our pain and turn
it into compassion and purpose.

Still, we are always on the verge
of something unknown
fires un-shown
children stuck between
fully and half grown.

There is violence
In this silence
In the words that you don't speak

Accusation
In excommunication
That lasts for months and weeks

The slickness of a blade
pressing against a throat....
the cold steel meeting tender flesh
blood drips and a body tumbles

the taste.... the sight... the sound....
all quite euphoric.....

Ripped clothes, smashed items,
echo screams, and the raging fires that glow throughout the night

The beauty.... the savagery.... the destruction
all quite euphoric....

Combat....

though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....

for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the ******* of it's victim.....

Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....

Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts

The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)

The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...

The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...

Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....

The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....

out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion  
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and  scattered  tranquility...

A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."

Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...

Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....

The angels are falling under the weight of the clouds
helplessly fighting with a world
where good hearts are hiding
frightened by the malice around.

The angels are falling,
their wings are dissolving
under the tempest coming
from clouds of hatred and darkness.
Their bodies with the light of stars are dying,
their dreams turning to dust
swept by monsters
under the rugs we're stepping on
saying that everything is fine,
turning our heads,
pretending we're not seeing
that the angels are falling
and the monsters are cleaning the roads
to an existence
without dreams
without purity.

The sound of guns covering the voices
of the innocent children we used to be
blindly we're walking
lying to ourselves
that everything it's gonna be alright.

The angels are falling
and with their tears
we're drowning
in a sea of blood,
in the emptiness.

Ma and Pa,
lover doves,
kiss with fists
and hug with shoves.

Our wives have become our grenades

                                                     and our sons have become our bayonets


the battlefield has become our home

I am a rose.
Delicate to touch;
Innocent to the core.

You crushed my head;
My sweet, soft petals;
You left me no choice;
But to stab you with daggers.

You unleashed the demon inside of me,
You removed my sugar-coat and left me naked -
Bare.
It's your fault alone that you are now hurt;
Your thick, red sin oozing all over.

It's a taste of your own medicine.

I am a rose.
Delicate head;
Innocent from the neck up.