It's
Only the times
The bells chime
And the doors open
But
No cuckoo comes out
That
Worries me
Now

Guns turn playgrounds into graveyards
and study halls into war zones
and classrooms into memories of living nightmares
and you say it's too soon to talk about
and lets not make this about politics
while you stuff the money from the guns you sold
into your pockets
and are quick to add you give
your thoughts and prayers
to the families of the victims
but your thoughts and prayers
won't bring back the dead
and their bodies are not yet buried
and already you have forgotten their names

Tell me again what god do you pray to?
Is it the god of death and greed?
Is it the god of bullets and blood?
Is it the god of GUNS! GUNS! GUNS!
How many dollar bills does it take
to wash the blood from your hands?
How much cash does it take
to stuff your mattress
for a guiltless night of sleep?

How many more lives lost?
How many more tears shed?
How many more hearts broken?
How many more families torn apart?
How many more bullets fired?
Before we stop praying
and speak out and stand up
and take part in real solutions

And spare me the rhetoric that guns don’t ****
And evil will do evil no matter the law or restrictions
Yes bad people will do bad things
one way or another
it’s true
But these are children killing children
Sick minds stealing the lives of innocence
At the ease of squeezing a trigger
A trigger so easy to reach
A trigger of a killing machine that
NONE of us need

And calm the **** down RAMBO
Because if you want to dream of some
Battle of glory
Where you single handedly save everyone
From a tyrannical government
trying to strip you off your rights to bear arms
When all you do is sit there on your couch
and let them strip you off far more important things
Let me tell you how thats going to end
Before you throw your life away
It’s not going to play out to your favor
The only Red Dawn your going to see
Is the dawn of your life’s horizon
Painted with your own blood

When is the time if not today?
If not now, then when?
A better tomorrow will NEVER get here
Unless we do something today
Until then guns will continue
to turn playgrounds into graveyards
and study halls into war zones
and classrooms into memories of living nightmares

I am on the street every day. Holding a chunk of cardboard, standing on the strip of street right in the middle, pretending I’m okay. Every day, I am hungry, chilly, alone. The winters are the worst without a home. The summers are almost as bad, but I can tolerate the weather then. However, in the winter, I am weary and thin. I don’t know how I make it by, no lie. My stomach would scream if it could, but instead it is reduced to lowly growls because I don’t know where in time my next meal stood. Every day, cars drive by, locking their doors, thinking I want more, shutting me out because I am begging. But what would you do?
What would you do if your marriage fell apart, they completely broke your heart, and you didn’t know how to save it? What if you lost your job to alcohol and depression and you can’t recover because you’re hesitating, and you end up thrown out? Thrown out of the small place with the dingy light over it because you can no longer afford the roof over your head- you know you’re dead. Pushed out, shoved out, called out, because higher classes of society lock their car doors at the sight of you, change to the other side of the street too because they think you’re going to cause them harm. How safe they are, in their small bubble without trouble, how nice it would be to live a life just that easy.
The homeless shelters always put me in a box, force me to be something they see me as - it *****. A thief and a lowlife someone who never had a kid or wife, someone who’s beyond hope, someone who wields a knife. And I’m scared because maybe they’re right. Maybe I am the one who wanders out in the night, hoping to give families a fright because desperation overtakes the body when you make this many mistakes.
The Walmart employees alway glance at me, don’t judge what I buy. I’m just getting what I can to get by, so I can stay high and away from reality, but no matter, I can’t escape me. I can’t escape myself and the things that I’ve done but c’mon, maybe you could with some cents - just one.
And maybe at the end of the day, I won’t give up hope. Maybe I’ll buy some patches to stop my habit made of smoke. Maybe one day, I can crawl out of this cold, and maybe right then, I’ll finally be whole.