I know how to kill.
The lessons and instructions have been a daily part of my life all my life.
Killing is the world in which I live. It is the culture that bids me to give
more and more to suffering and to harm. The movies I see,
the books I read, the words I speak- all drip with the fervor
to commit meaningful acts of violence. It is a constant urging
to shape ever sharper blades of harm.

Sitting in a meeting the topic turns to shades of death
An icy fog of melancholy clings to every breath
Riding on the metro, riders shrug and chug in fear
Eyes darting to each bundled stranger standing so very near

The how and why that I should kill is broadcast nonstop.
This information is readily available in a multitude of methods,
All studied and tried. There are plans, rules, strategies, and lifestyle
models that, in detail, give guidance to the ways of warfare and strife.

Fact, fiction, and fantasy gently prod all my senses for fresh kill.
Mentors nurture every nuance making sure I feel the thrill.
Games of chance and simple phrases promote my duty to destroy.
Selfish personal gratification teaches me to “get the toy.”

Yet, with death all around me, tugging snuggly at my throat,
I am innately bound by the truth of life. I realize that to kill
means my own death.
Were I to kill so then would I die.
Life is the only truth, one to be embellished and fortified.

Ultimately I disavow my imbedded instruction
I refute my inherited claim
I turn from death and destruction
To celebrate creation again and again.