i grow tired of writing poems in response to atrocities

perpetuated by those i am genetically forced

to call members of my species

and satan doesn’t dwell in the bowels of the earth

but he lives in the pools of innocent blood slowly clotting on the floors

and walls of our wonderful home and its not that you are just wrong

but you are odious and vile,

piling up pound coins and raped bodies

until you forget which ones will buy you happiness.

the worst part of this life is how accustomed to misery we are.

by the time we have shed our silken skin

and turned into a wretched butterfly

sadness washes over us

and we worship our televisions

and we worship our phones,

phones which we use to take pictures of the dead

and you simply cannot rape and raze for centuries

and expect the flowers to bloom like they used to.