Disgrace to Races

It should be for them. I still see the blood stains. It should be for them. I can still hear shrieks. There is pain. I can taste the metallic sensation like a spoon stuck in the mouth too long. They send in rockets. They burst with the fury of ten thousand suns. That’s what it feels like, anyway. It’s because they should be feeling the sting. Death envelopes this land and creates havoc amongst the people.

I was supposed to be for them. Most of the world, however, roots for the underdog. I’m feeling rather ragged. We didn’t initiate it. We, however, are taking the brunt of the attacks. I get glints of excitement only when we retaliate with our guns. We should pulverize…shhh. There are some figures who are stomping along the pathway. My ears ring again. More rocket attacks.

When the cries of the babies become so loud, when they plead for their mothers and fathers, that’s harsh. It is a hard thing to fathom, even though this region has been warring now for millennia. The worst part is when there is a loud boom and then the babies stop crying.

I’ve been on the side of the ones who have been attacking us for too long. They act with an exactness that borders on vicious. So I stay here. Both sides harbor me but I seek to be on the good side. They’ve discarded me not on purpose but out of fear. Fear that I will be too all-consuming. That I can provide to these people is a direct semblance of what it means to have me and to disperse me to fit their needs. Some say I’m too strong. Well, my opposite loses power because it is so overused, overloaded, overburdened. That’s what I mean. There’s a sense that the barrage of bullets and bombs are the result of men consumed by me. That is not the case. You never blame the tools. Nor can you blame me. I’m just an emotion. I’m often tied with discontent and spite. I don’t doubt that people can definitely use me as an excuse for evil, but I am not. I am simply an expression, an exhibit of the mind’s aversion to something.

More lights streak across the sky like diamonds shining in the night. These, though, are not precious stones. They’re reminders that this war is far from over. That we have much to do. They called for ceasefires. Interesting. They didn’t call for a ceasefire when we were first attacked. Thousands were killed and they didn’t tell them to stop their war machine, however improvised it may have been. It’s like a feeling right in the gut. A churning, burning sensation in the stomach that makes you want to vomit. That’s what I sense when I consider the rounds that strike sides of buildings and little bowls of clay lay broken in the streets along with the bodies. Some say I’m nasty. That I discriminate, upend, and destroy. This rings with all the maudlin sentiment of cheaply produced musicals. I’m simply that part of the human experience, if used correctly, and I know I’m using it correctly here, that detests evil. There ought to be no gray areas in who I am. When directed at someone of ill repute, I am best. When directed at the innocent, the untouched, the unblemished, that is a crime against all of the singing angels of nature.

Sirens seem to always blare at the most inopportune time. I want to go to wash up, get the dust and soot out of my eyes. That’s what I want to do. I must remain, still, a misunderstood and hardly even contemplated sensibility. Wait. Some men are talking. I know their language and they speak of doing terrible things. They walk away.

I know that I am the driving force behind the idea of flattening the other side. It is not with malice but with vengeance for the ugly attacks that transpired weeks ago. It tells me that I am still an emotion that few say they use but know that in their everyday life, even in innocence, they champion my cause.

Small arms fire punctuates the night. It’s like a little burst from firecrackers that go off here. In the same token that I’ve been at the scene of this war, I am glad that I know when I have not been found by the good guys. The reigning specimens of greater intellect, morality, and technology, they are the ones who are keeping me alive. I’ve been dropped or forgotten about or not comprehended completely. I had been lost on them for so long that they became stagnant and didn’t anticipate an attack from this enemy. How did I get lost? I don’t know. It has something to do with the tightrope theatrics that go on in halls of power. They then extend into the streets, often still blood streaked.

I’m making my way around the city. The entire time, I’m emanating the sensation of power. I can see it in their faces. The will to fight; to exhibit the notion of victory despite having lost me for so long. That’s what pushes me. The fact they had not intended to use me for their defense only heightened my awareness and my prowess. I have a firm understanding of who I am. More gunfire. A loud blast rocks the house near me. I don’t even shudder. What the people on the right side of this war didn’t anticipate, they’re making up for in leveling regions surrounding them. They’ve yet to fully find me in a way.

The might behind me is such that it should drive out all evil. People often associate wickedness with me, but I do not share this assessment. I’m different. I cut through with crystalline clarity the reality of a given situation. I don’t use gimmicks or contrived notions to get my point across. Whoa! That was close. A round grazed my shoulder. I’m okay. I’m here for the righteous side. They’ve yet to truly find me but they’re on their way. I can see them coming right now.

“Misplaced hate makes disgrace to races.”

-Tupac Amaru Shakur