“Every time the words “quality of life” leave your mouth
In relation to lives you cannot even fathom
I see a gun pointed at my head”

— The ending to a really crappy poem of mine. I don’t like the poem as a whole, but I like those lines, because they’re true. (I’m going through poems in order to submit some of them to an anthology. For every good poem I find, I find at least ten or twenty bad ones.)