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sab ariana Oct 19
i am waiting for you
to get out of my head
i am waiting for you
to come see me in bed
and after our fun
well grab our gun
splatter the walls red
it will be delicious
a mouthful of lead
together forever
now that were both dead
contrary to what i say, i really don't want to die. i promise, i couldn't even hurt a fly. let alone you. i want you to live for as long as you can. because the world needs you my precious man.
Sure.....
If you bring trouble to my home, I would not run
Cos' peace and love
is something I'd die for
A world without war
A world filled with patience to the earth core
Do you understand what I'm saying
Or do I need to say more
This is a course....
with pictures to draw
Pictures of love
From sons to their mothers
Pictures of love
From brother to brother
Pictures of love
From hoodlums to thugs
Pictures from all
Regardless of colours
Pictures of a non-
-xenophobic world
A world without
Tribalism tout
A world free from guns
And racist words
A world free from war drum
Sophia Sep 21
She sat alone.
Alone and at home.
Where her screams were silent,
But her mind was violent.
Her insecurities hid deep inside.
And they indeed, ate her alive.
A tear rolled down her face
As her heart began to race.
She took her blade and tore her skin,
Where her depression lied deep within.
This went on for days,
Months,
Years,
And until she cried her very last tears.
She decided she had enough,
The world around her was much too tough.
She took a gun to her head.
Congratulations society,
She is dead.
Count or stop to count
7, 6, 5… then silence.
Started from the one to countless

Fatally wounded, again inequitable ethnic
the trumpet sound of trauma
In a private car, but this was
not a public performance

7 bullets transmit the pride and prejudice
Police have millions of reasons to suspect,
but we criticize the moon—
tonight it’s dark as hell in a drawer.

Count or stop to count
5,6,7… then gun violence.
His truth is lazy
and infinite as broken glass.

You are in our prayers— we pray infinitely.
We would like to have
a brave trumpet show for ourselves—
Deep sorrow, tumultuous but informative.
Although there will be more details from the Wisconsin police, on 23.August, police shot a Black man in the back seven times, it launched a now all-too-familiar avalanche of reaction.according to officials and a bystander’s video of the incident that has been virally shared. Blake survived, but his family’s attorney said he is paralyzed from the waist down.
Sophia Aug 26
What is more deadly,
A gun or a thought?

A gun gives you the opportunity
But a thought pulls the trigger.
Marri Jul 26
Have you ever washed the blood of another off of yourself?

Standing under the shower’s rain,
Rinsing, and scrubbing the blood off your face and arms.
Staining the tile where you stand;
Swirling hypnotically down the drain.

I shot you;
I’m the reason you’re dead,
And the splatter of blood across my face proves it.

The gunpowder is still under my nails,
Black as ever as if I scratched my way out of my own coffin into yours.
I’m still coughing up dirt, I swear.

I stabbed you;
I’m the reason you won’t wake up.

The blade glimmered as I twisted it into you so fluidly.  
I was afraid to pull it out,
Afraid that a piece of myself was embedded in you too.
The dagger is a shade of red and brown as if you were ***** just like me.

I killed you!
Can’t you see? You can’t.
But, I believe, no, I know you feel it somewhere.
Somehow.

This water isn’t hot enough.
It’s not scalding enough to burn the feeling of you off of me.
But the blood,
Oh, the blood.
A never ending crimson sea, a deep bleeding river of you, slowly, but surely, disappearing from existence.

I run a bath,
The shower wasn’t enough.

I’m still stained.
I’m still tainted,
I’m still bleeding into someone who isn’t me.

The water swishes as I settle in.
Back and forth, up and down,
Over and under the sides of the tub.

The water won’t stop turning red,
A deep red.

A reminder that I killed you,
That I shot you,
That I stabbed you.
That I don’t regret it,

But regret isn’t guilt.
Is it?

It’s ******.
Oluwatobi Jun 20
I hate  political conversations
Especially ones about our dear nation
Should I start with the politician’s lies
Or society’s bias?
Yes, I am young and I don’t know much
But did you see how hard she clenched her purse?
Youths wanna be big
But don’t want to stoop to dig
Trying to look for shortcuts to success
That carries no stress
Men and women in uniform always forget life is A boomerang
they think they can play God cos they’ve got big guns
Our government claim they don’t have enough resources to help us all
but go the extra mile to fund meaningless wars
Humans have allowed their love for innovation to devour them
so much they have failed to acknowledge what they have become
People are so quick to praise loyal partners
Is Cheating acceptable and accessible now?
Politicians love  using tragedies to stay relevant
making false promises to win people over
Countries can’t fix the war on their soil
but go around bombing other countries
to steal their resources and destroy innocent lives
for their financial gain
I see you lot who embrace our black culture
but keep quiet when it comes to our struggle
You can’t choose when to be black sweetie
I don’t know why Vloggers brag about their good deeds
Don’t get me wrong, I am always moved by  your touching videos
but you shouldn’t film the vulnerable
for your views
The internet has  succeeded in painting the perfect body for its audience
that people feel they would be rejected if they don’t meet the society’s standards
We look up  so much to celebrities
because they are reflections of who we want to be
instead of using our little time for our development


Don’t get me wrong
I know and understand
©O.K
June 2020
racism, pandemic, gun violence, greed, police brutality
Isa Jun 16
what's it like to have a gun to your head?
the feeling of the cold barrel pushed up against your hair,
knowing that inside that barrel is a future that rides the line you didn't always think you'd walk.
the wideness of that barrel, you can feel it's exact measurements on your skull.
the gaping hole in the center of the tube, that weightless piece against you,
but only physically weightless.
the heaviness of the weapon becomes
as heavy as your heart.

is it the part of the power in the trigger against your hand?
or is it the knowledge of the chemistry inside that gun,
that's pushing against your hand,
like your palm and finger with that gun have a newfound power?
is it a horrifying power?
is it peaceful?
is it aggressive?
loud?
is it as quick as your instincts?
the flip of the coin,
as quick as your mind changes?
is it as exhilarating as you wanted?
or as deadly as you thought?
is the weight of the bullets as much as the potential you have,
that you so easily dispose of?
so easily reject?

which is it, Isa?
it's not worth it.
Sandy Hook Call to Love
by Michael R. Burch

Our hearts are broken today
for our children's small bodies lie broken;
let us gather them up, as we may,
that the truth of our Love may be spoken;
then, when we have put them away
to nevermore dream, or be woken,
let us think of the living, and pray
for true Love, not some miserable token,
to command us, for strength to obey.

The first line in the poem above came from President Obama’s speech in which he wiped away tears as he discussed the Sandy Hook killings.

###

For a Sandy Hook Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails, when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream while winter scowls
and nights compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

###

Sandy Hook Call to Action
by Michael R. Burch

We see their tiny coffins
and our hearts break,
so we ask the NRA―
"Did you make a mistake?"
And we vow to save the next child
for sweet love's sake,
but also to protect ourselves
from enduring such heartache.

###

I dedicate my poems to the victims ― may they rest in peace ― and I urge all Americans to act now, before the next massacre. If we don't, our loved ones will remain continually at risk:

Epitaph for a Sandy Hook Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

###

This poem is for mothers who lost children at Sandy Hook, and in other similar tragedies ...

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.

###

Shooting Gallery
by Michael R. Burch

If we live by the rule of the gun
what can a small child do,
but run?

###

Sixteen of the students who died at Sandy Hook were six years old; the other four students were seven. I wrote the poem below for another child gunned down by a madman. While we cannot legislate sanity, we can be sane enough to legislate away the "right" of serial killers to purchase assault weapons so easily. We can defend many small victims from such carnage, if "we the people" have the wisdom and the will to defend them.

Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death ...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm ― I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring ― I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the brutal things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

###

US or Them?
by Michael R. Burch

The NRA wants money in the till,
thus Adam Lanza had a license to ****.
Our government’s the serial killer’s shill
and will be, unless WE express OUR will
and vote to save our children from Boot Hill.

###

This haiku below makes me think of the students and teachers of Sandy Hook, who were trapped in a war zone:

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
―original haiku by Watanabe Hakusen, translation by Michael R. Burch

###

Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.

It seems to me that the NRA has declared a war ― an open season ― on our children, by insisting that assault weapons must be available to every Tom, **** and ***** Harry. But what will we, the people, say and do?

###

Something
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost―
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone―
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past―
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

###

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live six artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...

###

Here are tribute poems for exceptional children who should be alive today:

Emilie Parker,
the horror grows starker
as we see your sweet image
and cringe at the carnage;
but dear, how you mesmerize
with those vivid blue eyes
and death cannot sever
our hearts from you, ever.

###

Dylan Hockley,
a blue-eyed "gorgeous boy,"
was super beyond
death's power to destroy.

###

Jack Pinto,
who idolized the New York Jets' Victor Cruz,
is now Cruz's hero
and neither can lose.

###

Grace Audrey McDonnell,
our "beautiful, sweet little girl,"
wherever you are now,
there's a far brighter world.

###

Avielle Richman
had a "spirit that drew people in"
(and an infinitely knowing
and cheeky grin!).

###

Noah Pozner,
"extremely bright"―
your mind and your smile
both exuded light.

###

Jessica Rekos,
a "creative, beautiful little girl"
who loved horses,
are you now riding Pegasus
down heaven's courses?

###

Benjamin Wheeler,
"an irrepressibly bright and spirited boy"
had brown, soulful eyes
and a spirit no killer can destroy.

###

Ana Marquez-Greene,
as sweet a child as we've seen,
you "beat us all to paradise."
Was it because you were so very nice?

###

Charlotte Bacon,
our love for you is unshaken;
as you "lit up all rooms" down here
you now illuminate heaven, dear.

###

Daniel Barden, his family's light,
once brightened this earth, and now brightens heaven―
not a bad trick for a boy who's just seven!

###

Olivia Engel,
angel,
your only possible crime (I've been told)
was "being a wiggly, smiley six-year-old!"

###

Allison Wyatt,
so shy, so sweet, so caring,
loved to garden with her mother.
Six pink candles, then an eternity of sharing.

###

Catherine Violet Hubbard
when you were here
the cupboard
of life
was never bare,
but full of light
and your electric hair!

###

Josephine Gay
had just turned seven;
now she will always be
"a lovely part of heaven."

###

Caroline Previdi,
"sweet, precious little angel,"
we fondly remember
your infectious smile.

###

Chase Kowalski, age seven
seems awfully early for heaven;
but since there was never a better child ...
perhaps the angels called, beguiled?

###

Jesse Lewis, so full of life,
you could fill a room with bright laughter;
I'm sure you're entertaining angels now
and brightening the Hereafter!

###

James Mattioli,
exceptional swimmer,
without your bright presence
the world seems much dimmer.

###

Madeleine Hsu,
what we know of you
is so limited, but we love you too.
May your loved ones keep your memory secure
and your memory give them the strength to endure.

###

Here is a memorial poem for the school's lovely, valiant principal who, according to accounts, ran to defend her young charges the minute she heard shots being fired, lunging at the shooter in an attempt to disarm him:

Dawn Hochsprung,
each child's courageous friend―
you defended them all till the unthinkable end;
so let your kindness and valor be sung.

###

Rachel Davino protected her charges
from the killer's barrages;
like her loyal friend,
she was loyal to the end.

###

Anne Marie Murphy,
fun-loving, hard worker;
you defended your charges―
no coward, no shirker.

###

Lauren Gabrielle Rousseau,
who loved to teach, and who loved children so,
we're glad you achieved your dream
that final year, and how lovely you seem!

###

When Mary heard shots being fired, she could have run away to save her own life, but she joined principal Dawn Hochsprung by leaping to her feet and running to protect the students she loved so much.

Mary Sherlach, who courageously ran
without thought for her life to the aid of the children,
taught not just them, but also us,
love's surplus.

###

Everyone loved Miss Victoria Soto;
she was every student's friend.
And when a killer threatened her charges,
she defended them to the end.

Keywords/Tags: Sandy Hook, school, shooting, massacre, students, children, teachers, gun control
I-sun Apr 26
there is no gun that its sound sounds kind
but your voice,
is the gun which no hunter has it at all
🔫
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