Violence

Violence does not shake the ground beneath me.

Violence does not tear across the sky above me.

Violence does not color red the people in my life.  Violence echoes on TV, but the images of war flash clean, terror somehow seems to have very little to do with me.

Is it enough to have sympathy pains?

How can I pretend their losses aren't our gains?

Bodies piled high fuel cars driving by.

My cousin flies a nighthawk, and I know better that I should know not whether my blood took another's, as did the hands of an ex-lover.

Liquor stained his breath, and tears stung his eyes, and memories burn his mind; he cannot, will not rest his mind.

A soldier in the Army, he saw his share of bloodshed, many people died whose names went forever unsaid.  

They did not shared his fate of his blood being unbled.  Washing hands and washing face could not make this blood any less red.

I have had my own share of terror, but I know I've fared fairer than the people that I saw when I looked into his eyes.

Those eyes once took lives.

I never liked scary movies.  The music is the worst, but the notes are played intentionally so you when someones getting hurt.  

I've seen real pain, and there's a different score kept, unlike the movies, there's no one watching and no director saying cut.  

They say we leave this world alone, but I believe some leave lonelier than others.

For their end is muted,  I am compelled to weep in silence.

-Rica