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Sarah Flynn Nov 9
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.
Sarah Flynn Oct 18
“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 19
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.
The sun is setting
It's getting cold, dear
Take my hand,
I'll lead the way
Out of this place
To the sea
Or the Land
To the end
We'll drive all the way
Until we can't see
The shades of our town
Chasing us any longer
A poem every day

If my life had a theme song it would be "Romance" by MCR
Hamies May 10
you pulled the trigger
almost left me bleeding to death
but halfway through
you turned
and took out the bullets from my heart
i looked you in the eyes
and saw you tearing up
but it wasn't you
just the absence of your buried soul
i still feel your arms wrapped around my bloddy body even tho i have not seen you for years now
Blind Eye Jan 12
Tizzop Nov 2019
will you protect our

will you tell mom the
truth about us?

would you die for
me when they shoot at
us again?

last time nine
bullets hit me as i hustled
to save
youtube: "ghost ship soundtrack 02 santos dies" (gotz to stay alive tizzop)
Alexis Aug 2019
the sky is crying so hard
these tears feel like bullets
and sound just the same .

i have to ask
who is she trying to **** ?

if its humanity
i admit,
i do not blame her .
tears or bullets?
I dont see a difference.
Autmn T Aug 2019
Shameful to feed your kids breastmilk in public, but yet we will feed them bullets in their public schools.
Annoyed with the urgency some people treat something natural and the dismissive nature they treat something urgent.
clever May 2019
i bit the bullet and threw up the shell.
your high is like heaven and your  love is like hell.
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