If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.

These days, my head tends to be
quiet.
Muted static,
silently glowing in the background
of the classic scene -
your father falling asleep
in his favorite armchair
just before the game goes into overtime.
Frankly, It's quite the contrast to
the usual occurrence
of somehow missing every word said
and blaming it on how loud
my thoughts can tend to be.

I see in shades of mauve,
taupe-colored glasses
dense, and probably
meaningless.
I take the form
of a bug on the wall
observing from the outside
and buzzing around the deepest parts
of my memory,
that even I
can only hope to recall someday
when I've decidedly
reached stability.

I felt the shift
in the innermost components of me.
Part of me thinking,
"finally"
Part of me repeating,
the old truth
that I hate any change -
with every cell in my vessels
and realizing with reluctance
that things will never revert
to what I'm used to.
So I guess all I have left
is to follow along, ebb and flow
with the currents around me
in hopes that every altered consolation
brings me closer to complete.

I cant preform at my best
when my hearts trying to escape my chest
I want to write and recite beautiful poetry
I long to manifest my anguish in paintings and sculptures
Being sociable and friendly is a fantasy of mine
But lately
I don't want to talk to any one  
about anything
I want nothing from no one.
except maybe your company
Maybe I wont feel so alone
keep losing tack of self.
transforming into this
                                       Thing.
I do not recognize