and it’s not that
i want to see you bleed
it’s that i want to be the one
who makes the wound
do you see how power
differs from action?
do you believe in addictions
other than your own?
we are all
so fucking desperate
this man who writes
to tell me what
he’s sacrificed for his art
these children
who weren’t even born when
the land mines were planted
their missing limbs and
ruined faces
and small painful deaths
all of the reasons i
hate what i’ve become
or these animals in
their tiny cages
and the way they go insane
the way money
exchanges hands
twenty bucks he says
as his girlfriend walks into the room
and i think i might know her
i think i may have
been here before
was promised nothing but
came back again
again
learned finally that
hatred was
the only drug i needed
to feel alive
by John Sweet
