Ryan P. Quirk
Poetry – Second Place
I have traded in my humanity for a steady hand.
Compassion for coolness.
Curiosity for hatred.
The scents of blood and gunpowder intoxicate me.
A body, not a friend.
I make a decision and he dies.
Each bullet rips out part of my soul,
The mark of a true warrior.
I’m as empty as my magazines.
I devolve to a state of pure hatred and instinct.
Love is worthless.
Art, the pathetic reproduction of a savage reality.
I have realized my own potential for violence.
I can never forget,
Only hide.