My warzone isn’t one of death and destruction.
My warzone is four walls of privilege,
Always heated,
Never hungry,
Little wrong.

Happy families
With slamming doors
Screaming matches
And silent tears.

Atmosphere as cold as the Russian winter,
We tread on,
Hoping that one day
It will stop.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem