( or Seventeen Going on Dead)
February 14, 2018.
A day meant for flowers and chocolate. Love and hugs and kisses.
This day was going to end so magical.
But instead of seventeen pairs of lips parting for another person, seventeen bodies were parted and kissed by bullets. And still, I can't understand how you find holyness in deadly metal.
Tell me,
What kind of assault rifle does your god carry?
Playing judge and jury he will shoot a mother of three. At age 29 diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer, she won't live to see 30.
Shots fired:
At age 9, a girl will be assaulted and raped. Her offender will get only five years in prison and her father will never have the same relationship with his only daughter like he had before. And all she wanted was to walk to school on her own.
Shots fired:
At age 15, Peter Wang will hold open the doors to safety for terrified students and he won't live to 18. See what life would be like to own a home, have a family, die with the one he would love.
And still you praise silver and metal.
Lead and levers.
Bullets raining like sleet, bodies will hit the floor while across the country bodies will be dancing to their beat. All that copper and lead could have built bridges to connect families. could have been used to manufacture more pennies for the families buried below the poverty line. Make more train cars to carry the next person home.
I mean really,
why love something that only takes and never gives.
And I sit here, thousands of miles away from anything, wondering how hard will it be to kill your god.
I mean if humans can shoot presidents point-blank in the head, leave starving child on streets, let men hit their wives, then why can't we kill something as imaginary as a child's favorite superhero. Or villain.
I will burn every bible. Like your god burnt down homes and left bodies inside. I will stand in the smoke of holy scripture and sing hyms about nothing but nature. And it will be deafening. I'll graffiti heaven with the same blood spilled from miscarriages. Scatter ashes of angels on soil and hope weeds will grow because right now I need something alive to always come back.
And to your god, shot gun in hand, I hope something beautiful will blossom from its spilled blood.
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Hi readers, this poem is a bit touchy i know. But when I heard and read up on the Florida school shooting I was too upset. I am truly and utterly disappointed in the amount of mass shootings in the United States. It is honestly very scary hearing about this when you are in a low security school. I hope this poem kind of grasps that. And I am sorry if the "God thing" was a bit sensitive but I have my opinions and my own beliefs. Anyways lovely readers I hope you liked this poem. Please vote, comment, follow, and if you have any questions my DMs are opens. Have a lovely day.~☕
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Fragmentation
PoetryFragmentation// the process or state of breaking or being broken into small or separate parts. ××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××× It's hard for me to complete my poems. And I finally decided to share some of my poetry with strangers. These...
