war, everywhere

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


learned finally that
hatred was
the only drug i needed
to feel alive


by John Sweet

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