the walls here are thin
because we can't afford
to build them any stronger.

we can't afford to spend money
to test smoke detectors,
or to build new fire escapes.

if this building
goes up in flames,
we have accepted that
we will all burn with it.

we can't afford to
spend money on
our children's safety.

but even if we could,
would it matter?

money can buy teddy bears
and pretty flower bouquets.

money can beautify
our roadside memorials,

but lit candles and
decorated street corners
can't bring back the
children who died there.

every night, I hear the sirens
of an ambulance speeding
through our streets.

sirens are the lullaby
that this city sings to our children,
and to our children's children.

if I didn't hear them
when I close my eyes,
I would be afraid.

because no sirens
does not mean that
there is no crime.

no sirens means only
that no one has come
to clean up the scene.

someone told me once,
that in suburbia,

in the neighborhoods
where the houses are
built with thick walls
and strong foundations,

and the neighbors fight
over who can buy
the fanciest car,

and those fights end
with snarky comments
instead of gunshots,

their children
fall asleep listening
to the sound of crickets
instead of sirens.

in those neighborhoods,
they do not raise their children
to be afraid of drugs
and death and violence.

they raise their children
to be afraid of our children.

our children are buried
six feet beneath the ground,

before their children
even learn the meaning
of the word "death."

The gun shots are heard
one two three four
at first until people realize
what is happening
and start to run
while toppling over themselves
as they try to find a safe spot
but the gun shots keep coming
five six seven eight shots
and the space is
too wide
too open
too empty
only full of bodies running
or bodies already down
nine ten eleven twelve shots
the music from the stage stops
and the festival is turned upside down
and vision blurs
senses dissipate
except for one
the sense of hearing
thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen shots
ring
buzzing
blaring
in the ears
of those watering the grass with their blood
and those still trying to find a way
to avoid being shot
seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty shots
accompanied by screams
loud screeching screams
that will haunt the survivors in their dreams
and in their time awake
but yet still the overwhelming
amount of screams cannot overpower
the sound of bullets
cutting through the air
and piercing into flesh
twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four shots
there is nowhere to go
there is nowhere to run
just massive amounts of people
all huddled in one large chaotic group
enjoying music one minute
and knocking people over
to get as far away
from the shooter the next
through the tripping
and the running
and the panting
and the screaming
are the arrival of two colors
red and blue red and blue red and blue
and sirens sirens sirens
twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight shots
and then none

Their words aren't just syllables
They're gunshots
Bullets released from the barrel
Not looking for laughter
But looking to ****
Taking the voices from those who need to use them most
Tears aren't just tears anymore
Tears have turned to blood
Flowing from every exit it can find
Arguments aren't just controversies
They're wars.

Like a bullet in love with the gun.
Breaking silence just to run
Flesh is found
But the embrace of steel was better.

It's so ****** messy.
I should have stayed home.

Your words melted from the heat of your mouth
and dripped from your tongue.
The syllables sounded like gunshots firing from your lips
dropping against the ground with a metallic thud.
How many times have you performed this execution?
Deep down I knew you were a fox and I was a rabbit
but I never thought you would stop my heart in such a way.
My heart stuttered when you said my name
but now the mention of yours freezes me
like the cold that creeps into a lifeless body.
You always said you had no soul
but with every death you leave in your wake,
you collect yet another.
I remember begging you to stop speaking
to stop reloading your bullets.
But what's the point when you already planned
to leave me behind, struggling to breathe?

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return.
I am tired of internal, trenching,
desperate calls
for pen and paper.
I am tired of empty pages,
and pens being put down.
I am tired of the fragmentary
*******-business I have with my declaration of expression.
I want to write about rough ****** efforts
and soft
aching feelings.
I want to write about Coca Cola freezies
(because they don’t even exist, why?).
I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work,
admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it.
I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19,
And sob.

I asked if there was anyone there remotely my age,
and she said yes. I had just dumped all the money in my
wallet into trying to make my savings not negative.
It didn't work.
I walked over, stepped inside,
and saw teenagers. She told me,
there's a guy outside and he's twenty.
I got ******* duped by a kid.
Her parent's left, unwisely.
I met another half-black person,
a 15 year old girl who had dark skin
and hated everything that resembled
"blackness" or "black culture".
She even called herself white.
Here I was, outside drinking grape soda
out of a hello kitty mug,
discussing radical feminism
to teenage girls-
and ******* five shots were fired.
Not even 15 feet away, behind the garage.
[A fake 100 was exchanged, to which distaste was shown,
also this sentence is in parentheses,
and technically doesn't even exist].
So now there are teenage girls crying over gunfire,
hyperventilating, the high school boys jogging-
people in a swarm heading indoors,
and me.
The stupid-*******-tragic-yet-benal artist,
running in his stupid ******* circle,
trying to decide if he should go inside
with the crazy juvenile people, or see if he can get shot,
because he already lives life awaiting some
stupid ******* narcissistic tragedy
to wipe him off the map.
My opportunities had rushed away already however.
I walked inside and sat on the couch hugging
one of those puffy round pillows and laughing
maniacally. It was intense after all.
Kid Duper tried to relate to me.
I know she didn't get it.
No one ever really ******* gets it.
Understood, maybe? No one understands.
I left shortly after with a copy of Fahrenheit 451.
I was told I could borrow it.