The Million Mile Field

I hate you
You've grown distasteful of me
Suspicion flies by for the time being I,
Don't think I mean much more than I say,
That is to say, it's a weird feeling
Like stepping on glass that feels like clay
Like floating in your own blood
Resentment is a word 
Not used in the correct context
Not nearly enough
You resent me,
That, I can see- because you're crystal clear,
Like a megaphone on overdrive,
On the other end of the million mile field. 
Every side to their own, the war has begun.
Offense and defense are claims- we are all opposition,
Yet we are all in macro superposition.
Are my intentions read?
Do you have an understanding that they understand you?
Mutuality is an unattainable bliss.
I'll kiss the night sky goodbye.
And rush back to my existence.
What use is speed of the universe,
When distance is irrelevant,
And time is perception?
My selection of weapons are for protection,
Of course, opinion can kill fact any day if there is enough support...
Build a fort.
Sleep, eat, breathe,
Crawl, drool, heave
The fluke that you are, living on a series of flukes,
Like mistakes without negative impact.
Neutrality.
The battle has paused.
We take time to reflect on ourselves,
By deflecting on others.
Destructive forces we possess.
Yet less, we retain our humanity.
Through the guise of appearing civil for a brief second,
We let our discussions cast our fate,
Hearing our contradictions in order to heal our wounds.
Momentarily, that is-
Can't you see? Syntax fails me...
Plausibly unexplainable through the heavy bias of words.
The shade of our own lack of information,
A dense shadow looms.
It is hard to see through such limited eyes. 
Expression is a mission to break our own human barriers.
Setting more would be counterproductive.
But some disagree.
Therefore the battlefield is stained with fallen ideologies,
And victims of the ones still standing. 
Some turn their heads first, 
Their eyes revealing the scene at hand.
Blood stained grass,
Thick bullet-sprayed mud makes the land.
The brief moment is over.
Our privatized chaos ensues.
Many more will fight, hoping to win,
But everyone will lose.