I miss you every day, but five days more than others.
Birthday, Death day, Yesterday, Today, And Tomorrow.
America, a land of freedom and money, where it comes from and where it goes, its put into your news shows, pay attention to the numbers.
237 years of a place, with the burden placed, on the shoulders of the young, with his hands around a gun, and he’s counted as a number.
21 years out of 237 have been peace, that means that war is all you know, gun fights on your tv, but don’t worry it’s just a show, nothing but a bunch of ratings, just numbers.
The old play games with young life’s, who leave behind their wives, and whose name will later be carved into a stone and forgotten in time as just another number.
But they’ll live on, stay strong, and not be forgotten, at least for a little while, in the memories of us, the others numbers.
I am no longer a number, because I have gotten numb-er, to love, to death, and to hate, and things that should light a fire in my soul, now there’s just this hole, that’s filled with lost numbers.
Places change but wars stay the same, faces erased from time and space and only death remains. Sand and blood and a box, wrapped in what the people hide behind, a flag and a whole lot of numbers.
There’s never been a bad peace or a good war, so what are you fighting for? America, where war is money and the price is paid in blood.
As Arubdhati Roy once said “Flags are but bits of colored cloth to shrink-wrap people’s minds and then later as a ceremonial shroud used to bury the dead.“
But its okay, he was just another number.
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