Writing poetry helps me control my passions and allow me to fall asleep.

The Wasteland   The cold hatred is ever present, Silently it creeps out in expression. Alone, I muse in verse and prose, In them I hide from the public’s knife.   Was not born infatuated with fighting, Did not go to college to have a desire for blood. Yet he who has a thinking mind, Cannot look upon this world without contempt.     Gone is the age of men, Destroyed by his own kind. Masculine instincts, Virtues for criminals.   Boys born chained to the altar of modernity, As men, they hang for all to hate and hit. Empathy deficient, Words I do not understand.   Society or I, I cannot choose both. And if I must perish, At least I will be by my side.