Paratroopers fall from my closed eyes
like tears of ink
and touch the paper underneath me.
Sometimes the soldiers
are swallowed up by the ground
But those who land, corrupt the paper below.
They are pulling out their guns
of revelation and rumination,
screaming “LOOK AT ME!”
with every shot, syllable, stanza.
Poetry is a warrior in one’s eyes,
a soul savior,
but a horror in another’s,
reeking havoc on lives.