Hunger Games

Like a hostage,
goodbye reluctantly crawls
out of the oubliette of her lips
and jumps to its death,
why death waits for her like
a grave in a forest laced battlefield.

Where trees gossip of war stories
and night eulogizes the fallen
as if it didn’t trip them into a corpse.
Imagine a genocide with make up on.
And once that becomes too
unbearable to fathom,
imagine a massacre for charity.

That kind of blood never did
mix well with tears or fire.
They fear those that move
through crossfires like revolutionaries;
that look presidents dead in the eyes
and see only a man with a suit and
more power than he can handle.

The system is like a box made
to not think outside of it.
So that why when you do they try
their hardest to either bury you or
lock you in one for eternity.