0 - Unfinished Poetry 1

Life is a slow suicide


 
Life is just a tribal war against the apocalypse  
 
We close our thoughts and hope and pray  
 
The day doesn’t come when the sun will bury a billion sons  
 
And who are we to say or complain  
 
Our rainy days were wished away  
 
On a hotter climate, the times sure change  
 
Rearrange the days into only sunday’s  
 
And someday soon the gloom will doom us all to lamp posts  
 
The humans consume the hopes and dreams of everything  
 
Insecticides behind crying eyes  
 
 
 
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