Unwavered Still Poem by Brian Mattern

My mind is a worn-out boxing glove,
and my brain cells hardly swing easy.
Though, my fists are a waste of good fighting tools,
since no war was ever fought with man's reason.

Bullets don't fly toward my direction,
yet victims' pains find their way in.
Unjust murder disguised as security,
as each tear dropp so pierces my skin.

I'd give up my lifestyle within diseased borders,
if it meant the end of these horrors.
Some things deserve a place in this world,
but with ceaseless unrest these things cannot flourish.

So, once again, I state my case clear,
the difference is that now I am begging.
We won't ever be happy with an unhealthy world,
while life exists as this shrapnel by-product that they're selling.