Sorrow seems more general than it did, and not the estate of a few persons, since the war began; and if the anguish of others helped one with one’s own, now would be many medicines.
—Emily Dickinson
Suffer, squirm, and die
I hope your life is hell
Your hurt is my elixir
I’m doing pretty well
Your torment is my tonic
Your pain is my success
I pray for mass affliction
I feed on your distress
Your agony refreshes
And fills my world with joy
The cure for all that ails
Is to damage and destroy
Misery rejuvenates
It whitens every stain
All of my misfortune
Is abolished in your pain
by Richard W. Bray
Tags: Emily Dickinson, Poetry, War
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