I want to write

of beauty-

sunsets, happiness,

youth without pain.

But as long as there is

so much horror

in the world,

my words are shrouded

with dark.

I can only write

what I know,

as if my pen speaks

only truth.


why must you be so cold,

reflecting what is bad,

moving past the good that

does exist?

The things that


don't have to be dark.


that kill the world,

rape fellow men;

these are the tings

I write of,

for although I


to write of beauty,

I cannot turn my back

on the agony

that shapes the world.