That's all that it is.
It is not freedom
It doesn't save a conquered individual.
It kills them.
Kill the killer!
There's nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Sit back and watch as the body turns to ash.
Remember not to taste the blood on your own fingers,
your guns so more can fall, burn,
and then disappear just like you will someday.
as a child,
unaware of war.
But as a child I could see:
Naked skin on the platter that is democracy.
Pent up aggression,
from ruthless years of our own youth killing each other,
now redirected to the other side,
the foreign side,
With weapons that-admit it-you haven't seen yet.
But surely, you are not blind to the decay,
the flower-ridden beasts with their beards and turbans.
To the screams of the women being raped in the streets.
To the crackle of gunfire.
Do you hear it?
Or do you just hear your own battle cry.
You're own case.
With your own flag waving in the springtime wind.
It doesn't hurt you, does it?
To see it all play out on your; high-five, I worked for
twenty years just to buy; big screen TV.
Your ear piercing surround sound wasn't quite clear
enough for you to hear your own heart screaming:
Can't you hear?