The Worst Weapon of All
by John Battaglia a.k.a. JohnBattag
© 20 May 1997

When all the wars are done,
And all the weapons collected,
one will still remain.

This weapon always did and will,
bring bountiful fear from everyone,
And nothing can stop it.

It affects everyone,
and spares no one,
with every soul wielding it.

It stings like a poison,
runs burning through veins,
and won't stop until it reaches the heart.

When it's there it damages,
more then either bullets or bombs,
for they are felt once.

This pain repeats itself,
recalling horrible memories of the past,
and leaves us wondering of the future.

This weapon is the Stinging Serpent,
that we call our tongue,
and the poison is its words.

By Myself
by John Battaglia
© 1 June 1997

Everyone goes their seperate ways,
Almost always with another soul,
Except for me, who is alone,
And I see that no one cares.

They pass me by, and don't question why
I'm standing there by myself.
I'm in another world to them,
And I see that no one cares.

After all, they have things to do,
Which never, ever, include me.
I look lonesome, or so I think,
But I see that no one cares.

I ask myself, how can they feel so good,
when another is feeling so hurt,
But the questions remain unanswered for me,
When I see that no one cares.

Some say "hi" or "how are you?",
And I offer a reply,
But what I say, they don't take heed,
And I see that no one cares.

Some talk to me for a while,
I give them little response,
Because after they go they forget about me,
Which proves that no one cares.

I am sad, miserably melancholy,
In a world out of thiers,
If only one would be sincere,
I'd know that someone cares.

Nights
by John Battaglia
© 19 May 1997

After the day is through and I retire to rest for the night,
I look back on the day, and in my own special manner,
I determine what went wrong.

Sometimes it's my fault, and sometimes it's not,
But my heart still feels the same either way.
Like it's pierced straight with a sword.

I wonder, why did I do this?; and why did I do that?,
but it doesn't help the pain; the only thing that works,
is if I say to myself, "Tomorrow is another day."

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All poetry on this page is copyrighted © 1997 by John Battaglia. None of the poems on this page may be used without the expressed, written permission of John Battaglia.