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Justice Or JUST US

******Justice or Just US******

 

Ask yourselves, is there Truly justice here in the US so-called America, a Stolen Continent since 1491 [Anahuac]!

America was founded on LIES, Murder, and THEFT......

Justice or JUST US!?!

The Haves and have NOTS!

Homelessness

Illnesses

Hunger

Drug Addiction

Alcoholism

Religions filled with LIES

In the land of PLENTY, Plenty WHAT

America LAND of the Free, but Free WHAT!?!

Justice or JUST US!?!

Children losing their minds due to fear and anxiety over going to school.

Who will be gunned down today?

Justice or Just US

Lenord Peltier is still incarcerated for 46 years for a crime he did NOT commit!

While Nixon and Trump walk free! Along with many other government officials past and present!

Justice or JUST US!?!

The Haves and Have Nots

The Color of Justice in America

No not White, Black, or Brown

The color of justice in Amerikkka is GREEN [In God We Trust] on every dollar Bill!

 

Chicahuac Necahuatl

Strong Left Behind Survivor

9/14/2023

The land of Oz

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Peace Love and Healing Light 

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last updated 15 September 2023 - 5:14am
©15 September 2023 - 5:07am — necahuatl

Ezekiel (smile)

Folder: 
New Lyrics

Well, you must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed today

Cause now some unfortunate people are gonna have to pay

Pace around the room, throw on some clothes,  about to have some fun

Heading for the door, grabbed the car keys, don't forget the gun

 

-You're too far gone, there's no turning back now

Your thoughts gone dark, letting the demons out- (pre)

-Of your mind, are you that fucked in the head?

Now you've left behind a trail of bloodshed 

Look around, everything you see is dead

No remorse, you just smile for the camera instead- (chorus)

 

So, as you drive around the city looking to find more prey

You're streaming it all on social media like it's a play

And you're leading the ones after you on a wild goose chase

Too bad your daddy ain't around to praise your evil ways

 

-You're too far gone, there's no turning back now

Your thoughts gone dark, letting the demons out- (pre)

-Of your mind, are you that fucked in the head?

Now you've left behind a trail of bloodshed 

Look around, everything you see is dead

No remorse, you just smile for the camera instead

 

So lock the doors and hide inside

You don't want to be next in line

 

 

11-14-22

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I decided to write a lyric about this guy who went on a shooting spree for over 12 hours through the city of Memphis TN back in Sept 2022. Let me know what you think. I've attached a link to the story below

 

https://www.newsweek.com/memphis-police-seek-suspect-shooting-spree-alle...

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last updated 19 December 2022 - 3:58am
©19 December 2022 - 3:52am — uninvited_1

Alcohol and Ectoplasm

Folder: 
NEW STUFF STORIES 2020

 

Alcohol and Ectoplasm
 
04.04.2010

There’s a certain appeal to the drunken haze at the bottom of a six-pack; an even greater appeal attaches itself to the soft bruise colored oblivion nestled deep in a bottle of Jack. Or rum. Tonight it’s rum. 
But before then, before that lovely haze filters out the edges of consciousness into the spinning vortex of sleep—before then, the ghosts come. They touch her shoulders, lift her hair gently with their ectoplasmic fingers and whisper in her ear. Their touch feels like ashes. Their breath smells like rotting rose buds left on gravestones after a rainstorm. Not all together unpleasant, Amy thinks. 
She brings her glass to her lips and swallows the last of her drink. It tastes cheap, like bottom shelf rum and the off brand cola. The sticky sweetness lingers on her tongue and oozes down her throat like molasses.  She lets her head rest against the back of her chair, lets her eyes lull to half-moons of contentment. 
Thin ghost-fingers run down her neck, stronger than the others, but she hardly notices. They touch her cheek, slip up her nose and spin her thoughts with tiny spider hands; pale, delicate hands with blue vein lace visible below the skin. They lead her up towards a set of storm gray eyes framed in thick black lashes that match the volumes of hair spilling over the ghost’s shoulders and into her face. The ghost’s nose is slightly upturned at the end, her cheekbones are high, and her mouth is a wide gash of red lipstick. 
 
Rosalie… 

Amy sits up too quickly. The small amount of light in the room makes her wince. She walks over to the window and pushes at the curtains until she can see the dark outlines of buildings slightly shorter than the one she lives in. They stretch out towards the city, shining several miles away like a twinkling beacon of estranged hope. She believed in that hope once. Before…

Rosalie.

Amy shakes her head and tries to dislodge some of the cobwebs put up by Rosalie’s pale spider-hands as she makes her way back to her desk chair. Her desk is by the kitchen. She spins to look at the time on the microwave, but the blurriness at the edge of her vision makes her squint. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Did I fall asleep? 

Rain begins to hit the window. Big, plump sounding raindrops carry the smell of wet earth between the cracks in the wooden pane and into the apartment. After a moment, the smell of roses and cinnamon churns the air.
It hasn’t rained in twenty-two days—not since the day at the hospital. 

Not since…

Amy waves her hand in front of her face to put some breathing room between her and her ghosts before leaning forward to dig through the wreck on her desk for her glasses. She pushes at a stack of papers, nudges a pint glass; the glass tips, falls and shatters on the scarred hardwood floor. The crash echoes through the apartment, bounces through the empty corners and scares the dust bunnies. 
  In the half-light the glass slivers look like stars glistening against wood-knot constellations. Amy stares down at them for a full minute before letting a convictionless curse fall to join them. 

“If you press your hand into them you’ll have stars in your palm,” Rosalie’s voice says inside her skull. 

Amy snorts. “You’d like that,” she mumbles aloud.
“You’d like it more.” Rosalie’s voice comes from behind her, full volume and lush. The other ghosts are gone; Rosalie is the only one determined enough to stay. She smells like cinnamon gum and rose oil, she smells like she always did when she was alive.
Amy lets out a sigh that seems to pull all the strength from her body and plops her head down on the only clean spot on her desk. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” The edge of the desk bites into her forehead.
“I miss you.” She sets her hand on the back of Amy’s skull, soothes Amy’s unruly hair with her phantom fingers and watches Amy shiver at her touch. 
Amy sighs, rolls her head to the side and gazes up at Rosalie. Her heart twitches, a lump forms in her throat, and the backs of her eyes sting with unshed tears.
“What do I feel like?” Rosalie asks Amy. She tilts her head to the side like an inquisitive child and strokes Amy’s hair again; presses down through the static singe of Amy’s cropped dyed locks and caresses her cranium, runs the wisp of her index finger along Amy’s lambdoid suture. Amy shudders, squeezes her eyes shut.
“You feel like straight menthol dropped onto my skin,” she says and pulls away, “or like dry ice in a cut.”
 
***

03.13.2010

Amy walked into the hospital with her head down, rainwater still dripping from her hair.   To her left, a nurse stepped out from behind the big receptionist’s desk to ask Amy her name and who she was here to see.  Amy’s voice shook when she spoke, suppressed sobs clinging to her molars. She saw the nurse’s eyes soften before she turned and asked Amy to follow her to the end of the short hallway. Amy bit the inside of her cheek. 
The room smelled of bleach and vomit. When the nurse pulled the curtain closed and stepped out a hush fell on Amy’s shoulders. It made the steady beeping of the heart monitor too loud. She wanted to rip it off the wall and hurl it out the window. She wanted to scream. 
The starchy hospital blanket twitched. Amy stepped up to the bed and took the hand wrapped mostly in gauze; the fingers gave a gentle pressure as they tried to wrap themselves around hers.  A metallic, faintly rotten, smell slipped up Amy’s nostrils. That was when she noticed the blood caked under Rosalie’s nails, the brown-red flakes peeking out from under the bandages starting at her wrists, wrapping up her arms and waving over most of her body. She looked like a moth wrapped in its cocoon, or a spider’s meal trapped in webbing. There was a faint rustling further up in the bed: the sound of a head turning to the side—like when they were kids and they’d lie on the Sunday paper to make silly putty comics. 
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to look up. She started to cry.
Rosalie groaned. What was left of her eyebrows were knitted together as she tried to focus through the morphine-haze on Amy. Her eyes looked like London fog over water, her pupils only small pinpricks in the distance.
“It’s okay,” Amy told her, “I’m here now. Everything will be okay. Don’t try to talk. I’m here. It’ll be okay.”
Amy watched Rosalie’s eyes relax at the sound of her voice, saw the tension in her body leek into the hospital bed to mingle with the small bright-red smudges slowly oozing from some of the bandages covering her body. She reached up to brush one of the few remaining wisps of Rosalie’s hair which had escaped from the gauze wrapped around her head when she’d turned. It felt like charred silk. She watched Rosalie’s eyes close. If she could have seen her mouth, she could have seen what was left of Rosalie’s raw, cracked, lips try to smile.
The nurse quietly peeked around the curtain and motioned for Amy to follow her out into the hallway. Amy turned back to Rosalie and whispered she’d be right back, but the steady rise and fall of the blanket told her Rosalie had already fallen asleep. 
“She’s exhausted,” the nurse said in a hushed tone when they were both in the hallway and tried her luck at a sympathetic smile. “She refused to let herself sleep until you got here.” 
“I got here as soon as I could…My phone was off. I was in a meeting and…” Amy began, but the nurse gave her a look that said she understood, things like this were no one’s fault. Amy shifted from one foot to the other, guilt seeping up from the carpet and eating through the bottoms of her shoes. If she stood still for too long the souls would melt to the tile floor. 
The nurse was young. She was taller than Amy by a good couple of inches, she may have been as tall as 5’8”, but was plagued by the apologetic stoop most tall people develop. She was pretty. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy pony tail and her nose was small, her eyes expertly lined with kohl, but she had on those thick-rimmed hipster glasses Amy had seen the kids who hung around Starbucks wear.  Rosalie would have made a comment about them; something about how terrible current fashion was to make a pretty girl want to hide her eyes behind something so ugly. Amy simply wanted to rip those glasses off the nurse’s nose and stomp on them. 
“… critical condition. There is still a chance of internal bleeding—”
Amy shook her head. “I’m sorry, what?”
“When she came in she was in critical condition. It’s a miracle she made it here at all, to be honest. I saw the pictures of the cars. But just because she is relatively stable now doesn’t mean everything’s 100%. With as much as she was knocked around there is still a chance of internal bleeding and most of her skin is the same as an open wound from the burns. We’re going to have to monitor her for infection, but this is the best hospital this side of the country for skin graphing so—” She was cut off by a loud beeping from Rosalie’s room. Her eyes got wide before she turned and ran back inside. 
Amy’s mouth hung open. She heard people running down the hall and saw three other nurses turning the corner, running towards her; towards Rosalie. 
Amy burst through the curtain before she realized she’d moved. She ran to the opposite side of the bed from the nurse and took Rosalie’s hand.  Her fingers were cold. 
The beeping was deafening. It was like different pitched fire alarms were going off in Amy’s brain. Rosalie’s face was pale and her eyes were closed with the barest slivers, like crescent moons, peeking out from singed black lashes.  She began to rub Rosalie’s hand to try to warm it up. 
“Rosalie?  LiLi? LiLi, it’s me. Open your eyes, LiLi. It’s Amy. LiLi, it’s Amy. I’m here. Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes!” Tears made her hands slick as she tried to make Rosalie’s hand warm; rubbing it, then holding it between the two of hers like she did the winter of their third anniversary, spent in Central Park under the millions of Christmas lights, crunching through the snow. “LiLi, open your eyes!”
 
***
 
04.03.2010

“Aaaamy. AmyAmyAmy. Ammmmy, open your eyes. Amy, sweetheart, wake up.” 
Amy’s eyelids peel apart. Rosalie comes into focus slowly, her ebon hair falling softly over her shoulders, her fingertips reaching towards Amy’s cheek—
No.
Rosalie is dead. Dead and burnt to pale gray ash and bone splinters. Bone that looked like charred flecks of kindling the night after a bonfire rose into any of the crisp October nights spent huddled together under the stars. Bone that now floats off the shores of Saint Augustine. 
Amy presses her fingers to her temples, trying to dislodge the memories. She can hear Rosalie’s voice, her laugh, see her smile twinkling in her eyes… 
Rosalie pointing at Amy with her fork, a chunk of cheesecake speared in its teeth; her hand covering her mouth, her eyes teasing.  
Rosalie skipping playfully down the crumbling cobblestones of King Street; her hand extended for Amy, calling for her to hurry.
Rosalie pressed against the coral composite walls of the Spanish fort, fingers tangled in Amy’s hair, pulling her closer; her mouth—hotter than the hottest of Florida summers. 
 
Rosalie covered in a sheet, hospital nurse scratching down the time of death.
 
“Amy…. I’m so lonely…” The apartment smells like roses and cinnamon.
“Me too,” Amy whispers to the dawn peeking over the windowsill. 
 
 
Amy leans over the edge of the bathtub, fiddles with the knobs until she hears the ancient pipes groan, heavy with water. She lets it wash over her hand until it reaches a lovely temperature of scald before stripping naked and stepping into the tub. She turns her back to the showerhead, presses one hand flat against the wall to remind herself to stay upright and closes her eyes. Red blossoms spread over the skin of her back and creep around to her chest where the water hits her. She can’t feel it—her insides are cold. 
She opens her eyes when she feels pressure, slow and firmer than the constant streaks of water, run down her cheek. Rosalie’s body is distorted through the water droplets clinging to Amy’s eyelashes. She blinks and Rosalie is gone— no —she is laying in the bottom of the tub, skin black and peeling, pink muscle oozing clear fluid. What looks like chunks of burnt bread from the bottom of the toaster float towards the drain, clogging it. A clump of Rosalie’s black hair wraps around Amy’s ankle. She rolls her eyes up to Amy and stretches back what is left of her lips from teeth that seem impossibly white, like a shark’s. The skin splits in the corners of her mouth and blood leeks down her chin. 
Amy screams and takes a step backwards. Her foot slips out from under her. The back of her skull crunches when hits the tub’s spout. 
 
Limp on the bottom of the tub, head wound seeping, Amy’s eyes flutter. She feels Rosalie wrap her peeling fingers around hers before losing consciousness. 
Rosalie hums to herself and rubs her ectoplasmic thumb over Amy’s paling knuckles. The dull red water in the tub rises and washes over the side, spreading over the linoleum like diluted sangria. When Amy finally leaves her body, Rosalie is waiting.  

I’ve missed you so much…


 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

The formatting isn't quite right, but you get the idea.

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©10 November 2020 - 8:42pm — C.Locke

Defined By How They Are Cooked

Folder: 
Animal Rights

*

The chickens are

kidnapped, and kept confined,

then murdered

and finally

by how their

cadavers are cooked,  defined.

Some are called

broilers. Others fryers

by mass murdering

avicidal profiteering liars.

 

saiom shriver

 

 

 

 

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last updated 14 July 2018 - 5:06pm
©14 July 2018 - 5:05pm — saiom2

idea for a book, maybe

 

1

 

“Can I take your order, sir?”

 

I jump, startled at the voice and look up. Just the waiter.

“Just a black coffee please.”

“Any pastry or dessert to go with that?”

“No. Just the coffee. Please.”

 

As he walks away, I glance at my watch, for what must be the thousandth time. Two minutes past eleven. He said be here at eleven. It’s two minutes past and he still hasn’t arrived. Did I do something wrong? Is he not coming? And, since when does a doughnut in Wimpy count as a pastry?

 

And, Patsy….?

 

I feel a twisting in my gut; my vision swims as I feel the nausea rise again. Overwhelming. The stench of stale coffee and burger fat… I lose my breathing and start to gag.

 

“Your coffee’s arriving. That wouldn’t look seemly.”

 

I catch my breath again, open my eyes. As the dark whirlpool explodes into a million shards of light, I see the waiter approaching with my coffee. And a pair of dark sunglasses, opposite me, at the table. So black, can’t see my own reflection.

“Make that two coffees. And… how are your brown derbies today? Haven’t had one those since I was a kid.”

“The finest in London, sir.”

“We’ll have two of those, as well. My friend skipped breakfast again, this morning.”

 

Behind the sunglasses…

Short brown hair. White skin. No facial hair…. Can’t even tell if it’s man or a woman… just those sunglasses.

 

“We spoke. Earlier. On the phone.”

Is it him? He came? I gotta tell him everything….

I open my mouth and gibberish comes out. The blahs and slabberings of an idiot.

A straightening of his (her) jawline. A deep breath.

A deep exhale, relaxing the muscles.

“You are confused. Stressed. Feeling panic, maybe. Do like I do. A deep breath in. And slowly, let it out.”

I do as instructed and feel exhausted as the tension leaves my body.

“We spoke on the phone. Earlier. You said you needed help.”

 

“Yes, I need help. Definitely fucking… Yep… need help! I found him…. they said…..” and I fall back into silence.

 

“I find these situations are easier if you start at the beginning.”

 

“Start at the beginning? What the hell does that mean?…..” I start gagging again.

 

“Breathe….. in…… out….. breathe….

“Okay.. let’s start from a different angle…. how did you find me?”

 

A deep breath in, to pause and recollect my thoughts.

“I googled…. ‘need help, don’t know what to do.’

“After twenty five pages of links to dying from cancer and buy your Russian bride here websites… I came across  ‘Odd-Job Man. You don’t know what to do and you need help? I do the oddest of jobs. Discretion Guaranteed!”

 

“You just went all tense and scary, what did I say wrong?”

 

A deep breath from Sunglasses… exhale…. slowly….

 

“Nothing…. seriously…. google search? That’s really how you found me?”

“Yes.”

“Just, straight google?… not dark web… private VPN… summin like that?”

“No, no…. just google. Don’t even know what the other two are.”

“OK. Google.” A deep breath in. “I’m really gonna have to work on my advertising and promotion…. OK…. Why did you call me?”

 

“They got Patsy. They killed him. They say say they going to kill her.”

Having said them, my words chill me. I feel my skin prickle with the iciness of fear. My stomach just melts into warm mush. My vision melts into kaleidoscopic images as the tears well up in my eyes…. I feel a crushing pressure in my shoulder and look up to see an outreached arm and the hand gripping my shoulder.

 

“Remember to breathe. Slow…”

I follow that advice. The madness dissipates…

 

I look up into those sunglasses.

“Who’s Patsy?”

“Patsy?… Patsy?… who’s Pa…”

It’s like a firework went off…

I sit up straight and look around. A burger bar… a coffee in front of me… and Sunglasses sitting opposite me.

 

“Patsy’s my sis……”

 

The world explodes into a cacophony of madness. One giant ‘BOOM!’ unleashes the 1812 overture…. loud, deafening bangs… tables splintering and falling… the wall puckering out… spitting debris all over me.. people falling.. and screaming…

 

A pressure forces me to me knees… I recover myself and look up… to see Sunglasses beside me, pushing me down….

“Get low! Stay down! Do as I say!”

 

He has a gun in his other hand… what the…..

 

The world explodes into the brightest light I’ve ever seen… the loudest thunder I ever heard… blind… deaf… I try to stand… feel a solid… and know nothing but blackness…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

I feel a rhythym, a rumbling….

I hear…. everything… nothing… it’s all indistinct.…

I open my eyes.

 

And close them as burning pain racks every fibre of my being…

 

“Ah. You’re awake. Breathe in… and out… sorry, but your head’s gonna hurt for a little while. Things went bad, back there and I had to… improvise…”

 

Little by little, I open my eyes again. Everything still hurts, but not as much…

The blackness of a million fireworks exploding, slowly fades into the back seat of a dimly lit car.

“You were saying… Patsy’s your sister…?”

 

Patsy? Sister?…

I start to sit up as I remember.

 

“NO! NO! Stay down for now!”

…. and the back window explodes in to a million splinters…. prickling me a thousand times over as I’m showered in the debris.

 

My stomach heaves as the car lurches to the left.

 

The indistinct sounds dissolve into squealing tyres and… bangs… pops… repetitive, explosive drumbeats… and crashing glass and whispers buzzing past my ear…

 

“Who’s they?”

 

“What? What the f…. where am I?”

 

“You said, ‘They’ve got Patsy. Who’s ‘They’?

 

“What the… Patsy… who’s got Patsy?” My head feels so sluggish…warm… I close my eyes.. just a second… so warm…

 

“The ‘THEY’ who are shooting at us!”

 

…. shooting… WTF?….

I sit bolt upright….

“Sh..sh…shoot….”

“Yeah, damn, right, shooting at us!”

My left cheek explodes into warmth as the window shatters beside me.

And I huddle, right down to foetus, birth position, on the back seat of a strange car. Nearly thumb in mouth, baby-style, as glass splinters rain over me.

 

I scream…. “Please, WTF is going on?”

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

thought i'd have the heroic hitman/hitwoman as the sidekick and make the victim the hero, hehe

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©1 January 2018 - 5:14pm — suicideslug

A killer lurks in the shadows - A reverse poem

 

Kill the woman

 

I won’t let him

 

stop me.

 

Nothing in this world can

 

help her

 

The time is near. And I am going to go

 

through with it.

 

The shadows hide my presence. I am

 

her. Vulnerable.

 

I draw my weapon. I see

 

My moment is now

 

I am a killer

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this in February 2015, but never did anything with it. So, having stumbled across it once more, I thought I should release it to the world. Like a dove.

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©16 November 2017 - 12:32pm — CappyD

Murder of the Sleepless Souls by the Society: Madness and the Theoretical Suicide in William Shakespeare’s Selected Tragedies

Folder: 
Prosaic-ideas [Essays]

Introduction


The concepts of madness and suicide have captivated and mystified generations of scholars. Shakespeare seems to be obsessed with the portrayal of insane characters and their ultimate self-killing in his tragedies. In fact, the Shakespearean tragic characters such as Othello (Othello), Lady Macbeth (Macbeth), Brutus (Julius Caesar), Ophelia (Hamlet), Timon (Timon of Athens), Cleopatra (Antony and Cleopatra), Goneril (King Lear), Mark Antony (Antony and Cleopatra), Cassius (Julius Caesar), Romeo (Romeo and Juliet), Juliet (Romeo and Juliet) and Portia (Julius Caesar) may have certain flaws in their characters but they would not have taken their own lives away unless there were strong and negative influences from the external forces in the society. In other words, they are made utterly frustrated and depressed by the people, their actions and behaviours. 

 

Therefore, they lose control over their minds, act irrationally (as the decision of committing suicide is not logical and it is the proof of madness) and lead themselves towards self-destruction. In this sense, they have not committed suicide; indeed, they are murdered by the instigators or social agents! It would be clearer to understand by an easy example- the so-called ‘suicide’ is similar to the way a murderer stabs and kills someone or someone who pushes another person down from the top of a building. The one we call ‘murder’ is committed by using weapons like knife, pistol etc. which we can see and touch but the murder in the guise of the ‘supposed suicide’ is committed by using weapons that we do not actually see or touch such as, spreading rumour, constantly pressurising someone psychologically, hurting someone’s self-esteem badly and the like. For instance, Iago drives Othello towards the point of insanity by spreading rumour about Desdemona. He suffers psychologically as his honour is at a stake and his self-respect is ruined. As a result, Othello murders his wife. However, after finding that Desdemona is not adulterous, Othello loses his rational mind and acts as a mad man; he stabs himself with a dagger and dies beside Desdemona’s corpse. 

 

Othello in Othello 

 

Othello, the Moor of Venice, has married Desdemona, a young lady from Venice. They have a strong bond between them since Desdemona has respected Othello’s love by eloping with him. She has deceived her father so that she can stay with Othello forever. Undoubtedly, Othello is a leader of great stature. The Venetians honour him because of his valour as a leader. However, great leader and stress are similar to the body and the shadow. He has much tension on him. But, only stress does not drive Othello towards ‘madness’. Indded, the combination of the stress, envy, and loss of honour act as catalysts in making Othello insane. Therefore, he does not hesitate to murder his wife. We see a mad Othello when he cries:

 

thou hast set me on the rack.

I swear ‘t is better to be much abus’d

Than but to know a little.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

More will be added later on...

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last updated 7 November 2017 - 3:36pm
©7 November 2017 - 5:32am — KingofWords

Shooting

I cannot figure out my problem,

I sit alone in my room.

and for once I’d like to think my parents were right-

I’m fine, just 13.

 

I understand why I’m afraid of heights

I am afraid of being  towered over,

looking past me to someone else,

 

I am forgotten.

 

Years later, I am only known when being seen in the wrong light,

I am only seen on the TV,

or the jury look at me,

I see the blood on my hands,

the prosecutor cannot let me see more land,

I am scared for my fate,

I act like I am without a care,

 

I don’t think the death penalty is fair.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

uh idk. i'd like feedback

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©16 July 2016 - 10:55pm — shoot-the-singer

BETRAYED

 

As a young boy I always wanted to be a soldier
Counted the seconds as I got older
Then came the day and I joined the ranks
Not for me working in shops or banks
Then they sent us of to War
My Mother cried as I closed the front door
I shot a Taliban who killed a soldier
Now I rot in prison accused of murder.

© Tony McNally

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©21 January 2016 - 1:47pm — mack619