Bullets

I have seen beauty. I believe it exists. I know it does, I looked him in the eyes.
Although, no one believes me.

They say I am dying, and I suppose I might be.
We all die at our own rates;
Sadistic first, Optimists last.
People like me somewhere in-between.

They tell me that no one can save me.
No Hocus-pocus, no Modern meds.
I'm dying.
Plain and checked.

I learned that poetry is not of truth. It's a sick game of beauty.
A dog-eat-dog game that only few dare to play.
Life is similar to poetry in that sense, but Life is different.
In Life, you need to believe in sophisticated things.
You need to have a wide vocabulary,
Need to worship God.

It's funny.
Free country US of A, and yet if you're different in any way,
Whether it's a religion or an accent.
You're labeled and treated as such.
Communists.

Adolescent Suicide.
Propaganda.
Wars and Plagues.
It happens whether we like it or not, and God (?) knows we can't stop it.
Peace is just a lie we tell our children about,
A story of Indians like Squanto.
Like the Indians ever got along with the English.
We had a WAR with them.

Do you know what it's like to be alone?
Many say no, they have found that "perfect person" and their always around them.
Whether it's their husband or partner, cousin or friend.
We never stay in one place for long.
As humans, were in constant motion,
Like zombies, constantly hunting for fresh brains.

After all,
All we are is bullets
Until we hit the ground.