i miss america

I miss America.
The land where people get hit by cars,
Not car bombs.
Where people kill themselves with
Razorblades and sleeping pills,
Not with dynamite and c-4.
Where the sound of gunfire in the night
Is a sure sign of trouble,
And no one can mollify your fear by labeling the clamor
“Outgoing” or “celebratory.”
You wanna celebrate?
Buy a friggin’ cake.
Where children who wander off are kidnapped
And held for ransom,
Instead of roaming the streets barefoot
Through piles of shit.
Where greedy children argue
Over sharing a piece of candy,
Instead of beating each other to a pulp
Over handouts of rotten MREs
And bottles of piss.
Where kids play cops and robbers
With plastic guns and sound effects
Instead of carrying their dead father’s
AK-47.
(which will probably cost them their lives
When the next convoy rolls through)
America: the land where aging veterans
Buy each other drinks as they share stories
of their generation’s wanton war
While young soldiers of a foreign war
(because you are only a veteran if you get out alive)
share tales of home.