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A flame.
Our flame of life.
How?
How can other flames
fellow flames
wish to put out others?
How can people wish for sight
and smell
of another's blood?
How can one enjoy
screams of pain
that they have caused?
Why?
Why will small children
be sacrificed for the sake
of screams and blood?
Why is it that everything
that is good in this world
must end, and die?
Why do some things end
in such a cruel and
painful death?
How are some people content
to kill others
and hear their screams?
Why does anyone want to hear
a child's pained scream
opposed to any laughter?
How does our flame
become extinguished so easily
under the water of death?
Why are people content
to destroy one another
through some war or another?
How is war a game of wits,
a thrilling adventure
a wonderful epic?
Why do some people
carry a passion
to destroy each other?
How is death
by means of suicide and murder
an answer for ANYTHING?
Why are there always those people
who wish for power
and kill thousands for it?
How does crushing someone's morale
under another's heel
make anyone feel better?
Why do people wish to hurt each other
and do anything
to hurt another, no matter how far?
Questions.
A passion to know just WHY.
Or HOW.
I have this passion
to know WHY and HOW
people want to hurt one another
people want to hear one another's screams of pain
people don't normally see this.
If someone has the answer
if ANYONE has the answer
please tell me.
These questions plauge me
night and day.
This passion is always there
in everyone.
Mine is roused
to a level that is beyond just wondering.
It is beyond just a flicker of thought
a breif shadow of mind
as this poem supposedly is.
It is a frenzy
to KNOW.
To LEARN WHY AND HOW.
The madness of life is great
and it has various names.
Death,
Killing,
Murder,
even Fallen Angels,
even Rape,
and Pain,
and Suffering.
See the difference between the girl like me
and the girl
in the third world.
I could have been that girl.
But here I am.
Good food and water to eat and drink
and both of my parents
and a roof
and an education
and so much more extra.
Why am I here?
Why aren't I the girl in the third world?
This is what we have brought
upon this Earth that is
our home and provider.
We have brought death and destruction
upon this world that was
so kind, and loving.
We have brought both in grat abundance
and they will follow us
haunting our race.
Trees our chopped, and their lives taken
for the chair I sit in
for paper
for burning.
Animals are killed
for eating
and fur
and FUN.
This Earth gives us meatals to use
and we use them alright.
We kill each other with them.
This Earth gives us children to enjoy
and we enjoy them alright.
Some will use them as toys and servents
girls to sexually abuse
boys to play with their endurance and pain.
THIS IS WHAT I KNOW.
Many may say I am to young to write this.
Many will say I don't know what I am writing
or saying.
But to those who doubt me, know this.
I KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING.
You know I am right.
I look apon the face of a boy
with dancing blue eyes
and a happy smile with a missing front tooth
who was murdured by the blows
of an everyday household hammer.
I see the girl
who is wearing a pink blouse
with brown curls tumbling shoulder length
sparkling black eyes
and a perfect smile
who was raped
and murdured.
I see countless faces
cheerful
and happy people.
Some are kids like my brother
seven years old.
Their world is their toy cars
and school
and homework.
I see girls like myself.
They are twelve
and have reached puberty.
They were raped
and murdered afterwards,
their mangled bodies
left for the officials to find.
I see the face of a man like my dad.
He has black eyes shining with happiness
and messy brown hair.
He was tortured to death
just because he was a different race.
I see the face of a woman like my mom.
She had blonde hair
and happy blue eyes.
She was abducted
held for ransom
and was killed while being brutally raped.
I look at the faces
and realize when these pictures were taken
they had no idea that
they were doomed
or subjected to a terrible death
or ultimate humiliation.
I have seen them over the years.
Countless newpaper reports
and stories I have read
from everywhere.
Some are just unbelievable
but true.
Something inside me has snapped today
after hearing about a 10 year old boy
named Christopher.
He lived in a suburb of Chicago,
was lured away by a man
was missing for six days
then was found dead,
clumsily buried,
and stabbed more than fifty times.
I needed to share this with you.
I am 12, and I don't WANT all these stories.
But I have them.
Now I share them.
Maybe I am selfish
and want to rid myself of them.
But others have to know.
And this won't make me rid myself of them.
So why?
I don't know why.
Yet another question.
Yet another question that concerns thought
though this one might actually have
an answer.
This is the Madness of Life.
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