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Andrew Rueter Jun 2022
I wish I could take everything true about the world
and put that into a gun to shoot into the youth of America
but I guess they're already receiving a satisfactory education
when normal bullets teach us all we really need to know.
Ja-Lynn Nicole Jun 2022
words are bullets and
i have been shot by you too
many times to count
murdered so effortlessly
the bullets slip from your tongue
A tanka poem. syllable pattern 5-7-5-7-7 though challenging to write at times. Today, I am up for it.
Raven Feels Jun 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, no white the rest just black:\

reason to a reason faith held one capture
applauded reaches to fallen devils may fracture

prisoners of grace in ten hells same
on cedars that know no angel to not shame

one beat on the downtown line
once in twenty life times

stars align hailing pain
scars betrayed the blood of a shed stain

haunt a child of a pure soul no more
shadows chased for a find of bullet core

if money were on trees
then lands are leaf free

look the eye no lie
to a scratched unhidden cry

poison spreads a four feet stare
is it even of those a matter of fair

royal flushed they think a game under the rugs shipped
rushed hearts a lifeless drink on mindless sipped

ashes called out happy hour not shredded unlit
double vision as grown as useless as toxic as it

dropped corpses the live left to ache
hurt silenced been forever drowned on stake

worst of a future misery
crusted crumble like nothingness a cemetery

thunder smells
plaster lacked on dwells

I may not blurt wounds
because these things are
not nursed doomed

I know the knuckles of the cursor when I see
an everlasting torture painting smudges dancing in same place selfishly

GQ James Dec 2020
You put your trust in the one you think you can trust,
Then it turns out you can't trust em,
That trust is more lethal than them bullets in a gun,
You can run from them bullets,
You feel them bullets harder than a heart attack,
They both can **** you,
The question is which is more fatal.

If that bullet hits you inside your heart,
You're pretty much dead,
You're heart is the most fatal,
Without your heart you can't live,
Nothing compares to a broken heart,
The ones you love the most hurt you the most,
It's less painful not to care.

All that pain made me cold,
The only thing I care about is family,
My mama more than anyone,
Heartless what I've become,
I can't feel nothing,
My EMOTIONS have been faded.
Sarah Flynn Nov 2020
I used to be addicted
to the feeling of a blade
pressing into my skin.

I used to be addicted
to seeing those red dots
forming a ****** line.

I used to be addicted
to my own blood and
the relief it brought me.

I used to be addicted
to metal.

the world must be addicted
to the feeling of power and
violence and destruction.

the world must be addicted
to bullets in brown flesh
and mothers' cries.

just like I was, the world
must be addicted to blood.
its iron still tastes metallic.
it's still red.

just like blood,
guns also taste metallic
when the barrel is
in your mouth.

the world and I
have different views,
but we have one
thing in common.

we're both addicted
to metal.
Owen Oct 2020
Rounds in the chamber
fire away.
Numb to the danger
my chest ablaze.
Pull that trigger,
pull me.
Push me,
again and again,
into my shallow grave.

Throw all I gave you
You never were
about using my time,
and you had all of that.
Took it for granted
and planted

At ten paces
I turned
to your barrel on me.
No hesitation.
Gun me down.
You were always playing a game with me.
But im not a toy.
Sarah Flynn Oct 2020
“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.

my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”

I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****.
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”

and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.

still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.

he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.

the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.

there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.

I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.

most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.

he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”

here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.

here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.

here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.

here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.

here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.

here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.

his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.

she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.

she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.

here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.

he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.

but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.
Aidan M Aug 2020
Little light, travels in night,
Awaiting the fate he knows will ignite.
A journeying tale,
A bottle of ale,
And a touch of sorrow, glimmering bright.

Feathered friend sits in dark,
Listening to his beating heart.
A sickness, spreading
Quick and well.
Soon the earth will turn to Hell.

He boards the ship and sets off strait
Looking for his only mate.
Aboard the vessel, he meets a man
Who tells him all about his plans.

Flying, walking, together, for all.
They never even thought to stall.
Running through the woods at night,
Only one would ever fall.

Ever so quickly, ever so sudden,
The rapture of sound, the bullets a’ dozen.
Their bleeding wounds would not suffice.
The human race has chosen fight.

Slowly, dying, fading light.
Only once had life been nice.
Nothing that they didn’t owe,
Only one species left in the show.
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