When we put our pens to paper to detail this tribulation

We are a Nation of poets and weepers

Sleepers who daydream through a voice blaring over the television

That this country has gone to hell

And all is well if we can find a way

To normalize the act of




We know it’s our fault

But we would rather attribute an atrocity to bad coincidence

And not the environment we crafted by hand

To force feed our citizens

Of the USA

A land of willing prey

We are the children of mass media

Accepting our fate, we say

“Bad things happen that we can’t control”

Repeat that in your soul until you believe you have nothing to do with other people

Sometimes we believe we are brave

A permanent wave of pro-justice-fighters


Teenage rebels

“We will bring awareness to this cause”

By promoting ourselves

Onto history bookshelves

“I want to change the world”, or “I want to change my reputation”

Really, we want to be known

And what is the best way to become known

Than to draw out thoughts in fresh blood

The latest and greatest in gore and horror

Will become our inspiration

And our excuse

So we cry and we mourn even as we

Sharpen our pencils

Wondering what words can rhyme with death

If it couldn’t be avoided, we can justify our desensitization

So fate decided

“It was all meant to be”

And we go and make art

Out of a tragedy.

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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