Very Bad Poetry

The sun has set,
On this another cycle.
What receding light remains,
Casts red hues, blues,
And long shadows,
On clouds, guns, trees.
And the fragment,
Thats left of me.
In stasis,
I remain a uncaring witness,
To the next murder scene.

This night will only,
Bring more of the same,
Dead and the soon to be,
Sunrise bringing,
More onslaught of fear,
The pain of,
Seemingly endless days,
Or being dead,
By the end of it,
Wipeout.

Creator,
There has been a mistake.
We do not belong here.
The magnitude,
Of the apathy,
The lies,
The killing and suffering.
It permeates everything,
Even the air we breathe.
And only your pretense,
In listening,
Creator.
I think we have already,
Gone to hell,
We are in it.
For we created it.
Wipe this memory out.

Napalm is just a word.
The village burning,
The dead burning.
Pieces of them,
Pieces of me.
I have begun to shoot,
At anything,
For anyone and everything,
Shoots at me.
Wipeout.

I shot a kid,
For he would not stop,
His running toward us,
He blew up.
Using kids as sappers,
Damned VC.
Then the rocket,
Eight feet from me,
Taking Steve instead of me.
Wipe out!

War all around me.
When its not the VC,
It just changes colors.
Blacks, whites or brass.
We just follow,
Our apathetic orders,
Go through the motions,
Then bleed.
Wipe out.

You have no friends,
Only the priority,
You put on foes.
Friends just die on you.
Wipe this out.

To many boots,
Sticking out of their panchos
And if I get blown to pieces.
My name will become.
" Remains non-viewable."
And some goddamn junkie,
Is stuffing kilos of heroin,
In whats left of me.
Before zipping me in your,
Basic black body bag.
I have shakes,
From the all pervading fear.
Please wipe this memory out.

Nature is so furious,
She hates all,
With her wet heat,
Dengue fever,
And blood sweat,
For you no longer care,
About the damn leeches.
And another night,
So little sleep.
So many came before me,
None of them go home whole.
I'm wiping out so much,
It seems our own people,
At home hate us now.
I should feel,
But I just don't care.
So my memories of home,
Are goin to.
Wipeout.

I feel like I'm living,
In a shell,
That once was me.
But I think we all,
Came here,
With our souls intact.
Can't seem to give a damn.
Wipeout.

The sun has set,
On this another cycle,
What reeceding light remains,
Casts red hues, blues,
And long shadows.
On clouds, guns, trees,
And the fragment,
In the shell,
That once was me.

Robert Hawkins has published 2 more terrible poems since joining on 30/11/99. Read more of Robert's terrible poetry at the anthology. Here are three of Robert's latest works: