Poem: America’s Addiction

A society so set on justice,
It will kill it’s own
For sweet revenge
To make things “right”
For the tormented victims.

As others look upon us with horror
Trying to desperately save the lives of those wrongly accused
Trying to be “pro-life” for all those rightly convicted

But America desperately runs around
Incessantly, looking for more poison
Like a heroin addict needing it’s next fix

Revenge has become an insatiable addiction
For all those who support the death penalty.

I wrote this poem after hearing the news that certain states were having a hard time executing people because of the lack of sodium thiopental. “…Hospira, says that it will stop production entirely after a bid to start making sodium thiopental in Italy stalled when the Rome government said it would only license manufacture if the drug was not used in executions. Hospira said it intended to manufacture sodium thiopental to serve hospitals but “could not prevent the drug from being diverted to departments of corrections for use in capital punishment procedures”…” http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jan/23/lethal-injection-sodium-thiopental-hospira

Survivors of loved ones who were murdered in New Jersey wrote a letter against the death penalty. http://www.njadp.org/forms/signon-survivor.html

And it has also been proven that many innocent people have been executed. www.innocenceproject.org

About Amy Marschak

I have been writing since I was little and found myself bored but yet still trapped in a classroom. So instead of staring out the windows at school, I would write poetry in the margins of all of my school notes. And in this way I could pass the time without having to listen to the teacher when they were being boring or depressing. A few of these poems are in my first book “Poetry for All Those Breathing” which is now in its Seventh Printing.Poetry has always been a way for me to be heard by my family. If I would simply state how I felt, I would frequently be ignored but if I wrote it as a poem, what I had to say would be listened to. Sometimes my parents would even cry when they heard my poetry.