Uncertain Something Analysing

not wanting to overtag this poem because i didn't want to give anything away although it's really quite painfully obvious if you have any sense of right or wrong, really.

I wipe the Autumn crisp death on the back of my hand, sometimes,

It's real, and it's how I truly feel.

Great big nations at seventeen I knew I wanted to destroy,

I saw not leaves of different veins and strains

But masses, curling together to hate me, personally. 

There is such an ugliness in the word they use,

For what I deem Righteousness, setting us straight,

Putting nations forward towards the correct clock hand,

We've lost track, lately, we have, of what it is

When we are not peeling for false idols.

For those who claim a dream, they steal, an awful lot

Of opportunities. For those who claim equity, 

Their circus is banal and though I am welcome there,

(Lucky me), I shank the straight line that makes me She,

Before stepping there willingly through their Auschwitz. 

Their blooming blitz, their splintering s***s,

It Stalls me In, runs me thin. I wonder how it

Does not sink, but it does not. It takes the 

Emaciated grey bodies of infants and feeds it to their

So called dream, and the veiled are hidden, thus it be.