Guts (Or the lack thereof)

            I’m tired. And I’m angry.

            And I’m tired.

            I stamp out the cigarette under my foot. It smolders for its last breath. Its black guts spilled out. I watch as it takes its last breath and the smoke dissolves into the humid breeze. I feel nothing for it.

            I watched a woman get swept away by raging flood waters on the TV. I watched while she screamed for the last time. I watched as she thought her last thoughts before her lungs filled with water. A man stood by and recorded her death.

            That water couldn’t have been very clean.

            I watched a man get beaten to death on the internet. I watched as men in black uniforms decorated with gold badges kicked him. I watched as he convulsed from the electric currents pumped into his flailing body. I watched as he screamed for the last time. I watched as he called out for his father before his lungs filled with his own blood and his face swelled. A man stood by and recorded his death.

            His hospital bills must have been expensive before succumbing to the injuries.

            I’m tired.

            And I’m angry.

            I’m mostly just tired, though.