Hell opened up its gates and gave the innocent a view as the news reported and the world did jack shit, and I wrote this poem.
Opinions do not matter in times of need.
Politicians holding conferences, spinning their wheels while the slaughterhouse is open twenty- four/seven and the meat grinder is showing no signs of wearing out.
Yeah, nothing I can say will or should cause a dent within the thought process of anyone.
Humanity has lost its truest battle.
I do not wish to evoke conversation.
I watch the destruction and know it's red tape, not crimes of war, that matter to governments all spewing lies to suit their conscience.
We stand upon a precipice; an onlooker to a raping of another people's existence.
We are no better, just far more diplomatic.
Help is needed—not writers, politicians or opinion polls read by well-dressed jackasses on the evening news.
Hell isn't coming, it's already arrived.
Close your blinds and try to avoid singeing your eyes.
Just because we ignore the truth, doesn't mean it will go away.
Blood coats the earth, stained permanently in this shameful state of decay.
Sometimes violence is the only true answer.
John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.
His work has published in Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, The San Pedro River Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Red Fez, Fixator Press and here at the Dope Fiend Daily.
He is also the author of Rave Reviews To Killer Feed Back from Between Shadows Press.
His work is always unfiltered.
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