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selina May 13
t/w: violence, death

-

dear little miss dreamer
i'm sorry i couldn't write to you sooner
but yesterday night, i've read all three
each and every one of your letters

your mother sounds lovely
a brave woman, from what you've told me
if your brother comes by downtown
tell him, he's welcome to visit me

you have some big dreams
and i hope i can help them come true
i'm sorry i've been so busy
but i would truly love to meet you

you remind me of my wife
of her dreams when she was your age
we grew up together in the center city
like you, she was wise beyond her days

i agree, we need to help kensington
and we've begun taking some small steps
i'm pushing for a new bill to pass
but it'll still take some time to prep

i know you mentioned drugs and violence
and yes, i agree, it's completely true
please stay safe and stay inside
it could help protect you

actually, that just reminded me about kensington
my wife had told me some shocking news
a mother murdered at her kitchen counter
a little girl, shot, in the same view

i think she was writing a letter, too
but i don't quite remember who exactly to
it was titled, i think, "dear mister life-changer"
wait, it couldn't be— no, God, please, not you—
this is the second poem that continues the story in the previous one. the congressman send his reply, but... it's a bit too late now
selina May 13
please note: t/w: violence

-

dear mister life-changer
how have you been?
i know you never answer
but i wanted to try again

introducing myself for the fourth time
i'm a small girl with big dreams
my dad walked out when i was real young
my mum hopes i'll have an easier living

i'm in kensington, philly
it's not a nice place to grow up
with drugs, gangs, and guns
my older brother once even got mugged

i'm writing from my little closet
my mum said it's for me to be safe
but i hate being alone in this place
it's such a small, empty space

a couple of gunshots outside
it's like this every other night
brother's not home right now
but i sure hope that he's alright

there's a clicking noise
it doesn't sound very nice
i hear footsteps down the hall
they're not mum's, they're too light

mister life-changer, i think that might be my brother
he told me you could make things right
but why don't you ever write back to me?
why don't you ever reply?

i want to tell you my dreams
i heard you can make them come true
just give me one chance, sir
it's worth it, i'll show you

i dream of a big wide world
where i can walk outside and not be afraid
a world big enough for every little brown girl
to skip down sidewalks and enjoy the day

i hope to move to the suburbs
buy a big house for mum one day
buy her leather bags and pretty dresses
and not a single cent she'll have to pay

-

dear mister life-changer
i'm sorry there's blood on this paper
mum's bleeding out in the kitchen
someone shot her at the counter

mister life-changer
they told me to wait
i called the life-savers
they said, just wait

i don't know what to do
so now i'm back to writing to you
will you ever make a change?
will you tell me to wait, t—
wrote this poem that's a bit like a letter. context: a little girl living in kensington, philly, one of the most dangerous places in philadelphia, writes a letter to the congressional representative of her district. it's cut off at the end, and if i could, i would have added the sound effect of a loud gunshot. i think you would then understand how the story in this poem ends...
Sometimes it just strikes you in the gut,
A flash of a face smiling
Then dashed, red, fear –
An intrusive thought, a grief paralysis
At breakfast, in line at the store, waiting for that phone call
When he took just a little too long coming home,
When you send her on the bus,
When they kneel down for one moment of prayer.  

Maybe you never see it you just feel it
Maybe one hundred and fifty times a year,
Maybe twenty-six times a day,
diffuse, like an throb radiating outwards,
like a ghost,
like a seven-year heartache.

Maybe you stopped feeling it, you just see it
In black and white
In colors that you know matter, but you
Choke on your own descriptions (what a privilege!),
And the world chokes on the words that would
Shake you up and wake you.  
When you were given the right to bear something
it wasn't to bear witness to a waking nightmare.
But if you’re sleeping with earplugs
You’re never going to open your eyes.
I wrote this as part of Escapril.
Mark Wanless May 7
gun man comes into
i try to **** him hard or
hide behind a child
The wind bellows:
Unrelenting, pounding, cold.
A dog barks, sending sharp shivers down my spine.
Lying on my front my nose presses against the mud, It's earthy smell filling my nostrils.
Footsteps quicken; voices rise, the taste of salty sweat on my brow.
They've found me.
Reaching for my revolver I grasp it firmly, assured at last.
A single shot fires, it's echoes piercing the night as the thirsty ground soaks up my blood.
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.
A poem about a soldier in world war I who was never going to allow himself to be captured and become a prisoner of war.
tia Mar 21
gun in hand
trigger in mind
let's **** things up, alright?

"help me, help me!"
im stubborn as all hell
so forget my inner pleas or i'll say farewell

you wish to love me with such sweet words
but **** it's too ******* late
so let's just indulge in self-hate
this started out different but then i decided, **** it lets make it energetic.
9mm
I was back in my prison-- the four walls of my room.
Emotions were shooting like pistols.
My head is about to go boom.
Wrap my wrists in silver
And see what I do.
I saw the girl and shot her;
You want me to shoot you too?

Throw on the jacket,
Surround me in white,
I'm still going to escape it.
So come and join the fight.
A 9 mm handgun
In the hands of Mr. Policeman

Click click BANG BANG

Now the ground has a metallic tang
You greedy little  men in blue
Its always you who don't hold true

Click click BANG BANG
The innocent blood in your hands hang

How did it feel Mr. Policeman?
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