A miniskirt and red strapless top,                       

dressed up as a victim,

            before the crime has happened,

revealing parts

you wouldn’t show your family                       

but comfortable with around strangers.

You’re no better than the men            

trying to sleep with you.

And you laugh at them,

            with your girlfriends,                       

say how shallow men are,

while you won’t even smile

at the guy down the bar           

because he’s wearing an ugly shirt.

You could be wrong, at times,                       

but you’ll never say.

Instead you move on

and search for reasons                        

to justify yourself.

But People don’t listen                                    

to me anyway,

because I am on

            the wrong side.

They say they hate me

because I don’t listen to them.                       

And this may have no reason,

            no point, no direction.

Sometimes the best way to get there

is to make your own path.

Just stop when you think                                     

            You’re where you want to be.

And yet running down the road                       

I still find it ironic

the telephone poles

resemble crucifixes                                   

as they carry the news            

to a family that

their son just died in the war

trying to protect a nation

feeding off the patriotism                                   

of the supporters                       

who refuse to fight it themselves.

Thinking war is just

when it’s really just because

we’re bored so we board                                   

planes and ships           

and ship men off

to kill for oil

so we have enough

fuel to attack                                                

our next victim.           

Whoever that may be.