WARNING: the following contains evidence of anger.

Oddly, while I found myself curiosly NOT pissed off at whoever did this (mainly because I'm not sure who did this) I find myself being increasing pissed off at the knee-jerk "let's go out and kill somebody" sentiments. I guess anger as a first response is just a different one from mine, and I don't understand it. I don't think it's wrong, but I'm afraid we'll go out an bomb the crap out of anybody we don't like just because we can. I wonder why some people have seemed to give up caring about the victims in favor of kicking ass. (I suspect, and I mean this compassionately, it's easier for them to deal with anger than sorrow.) I'm not speaking to people who simply talk about their feelings. I'm talking about those who use their emotions to justify advocating killing. It still reminds me of someone leaving a person bleeding in the street to go chase their assailant.

I think we need to be careful. Sorrow makes us feel horrible for a while. Letting anger get the upper hand can lead to a lot of people (including ourselves) feeling horrible for a long time...or not feeling anything anymore.

The masters who build all the bombs and the guns
Those masters need servants, and they aren't the ones
Who are the destroyers of innocent lives
Look behind your own masks to see what good survives

You who point fingers at everyone else
Stop blaming the world and look at yourselves
You decry the slaughter and watch the world bleed
But when the call is for more blood, you follow with speed

Compassion and reason you believe in until
You have a reason that allows you to kill
And it's killing you do by the words that you speak
By the causes you further and revenge that you seek

The masters direct the ultimate plan
But you are the killers who behind them stand
Who lust for revenge and want someone to die
And believe what they tell you, whether truth or a lie

The killers are those who follow the crowd
And the voices of hatred join and grow loud
And maybe you'll realize before it's too late
You don't sound any different from the ones that you hate

If your children know terror, and cry in their sleep
They're the fears of a child, and those fears can run deep
What nightmare haunts them? They might say, if you ask
That they saw the monster behind your own mask