Not-so-philosophical
philosophies, shining
studs to catch your eye,
and pampered photoshoots
still float about passively

So I write to the men
who aren’t worth
writing to:

To the men with machine
guns lining their thoughts
and the voices
they have in their
head

And the women who
take their toddlers to
a bath for the final
time, with a crimson
painting to follow

With rabid eyes and
twisted thoughts
prancing around,
in a fashion few
can truly fathom

Meaninglessness
still sings to the world,
so we come back
in a chorus

There’s a pit
in our stomachs, just
like yours, directing
our actions like
a reality television
show

And I hope that
you meet the rope of
realizations, not
the one around your
neck

For if you do,
I don’t see a point
in living in a world
where the sane folks
kill men too