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“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.
Simon Oct 4
A girl's values are now FINALLY free! Because nothing wasn't meant to be ever forgotten from her literal inside outness. Nor was it meant to fixate a very awful opportunity for her to mend NOTHING at all of the sort.
Except now that all values are truly free.... How does she put up with the newly evolved form of freedom, (that too is... Nothing more then the impression of something that isn't entirely evolved, when it's more of the freedom of something that never "up to this very point in time" has had the very taste for freedom...ever since this very "corruption" had first started back in a (supposed past) that can't EVER AGAIN become measured properly...? When all isn't meant to be remembered, ever again. When it's also never made to be forgotten (for the most part), either.
So, reasoning out the many variables that compute too much seeming nonsense, as if it's meant to correct it's very wrong doings without thinking about whether or not, it's made to simply be this way...from now on...?
A question repeated by another question, doesn't give enough value to an even more "correct" answer... When nothing is made to bear for the correct assumption, when wanting too correctly "imply" something of an entirely different meaning, altogether.
So, in order to mask this (good enough impression) where nothing would ever again, become "faulted" right off the bat! So you couldn't ever become the more obvious to such a situation that isn't ever to be up too date, ever again.
This poem is too a girl who isn't just (on the dime) to correct their most importance across something that's most deserving of a young and cherishable young girl's lifetime values. (Because let's face it...) A sense in someone's very self isn't truly found out or correctly assorted into context for their very heartbeat to pulse even more correctly too life, if it's not been made to be assorted (very well) within it's very pattern recognition to debate those very pulses into even more correct verses. That would then normally lead into a proud melody to simply interpret as mere language to itself bouncing off of different representation of things that ONLY matter from deep within itself (first and foremost).
Because one's very values are then sometimes mistakenly disguised by the heart that you have yet too interpret (towards the very inputs that have yet to correct it's own values for the heart to value, altogether)!
And that is a brain that's too full of itself... That it can't even see the more correct reason, as too simply "why that is"...?
PS... The brain is the ultimate finisher of failures across an even more disturbing platform that can't even redeem itself (properly) when it's CONSTANTLY yanking it's own chain essentially too bear...alone with!
A girl's lifestyle is never demeaning to cost a lot of tension, when it grips pleasure with the aftertaste of a mere consequence.
Maria Mitea Sep 10
I look to buy,
I want to buy,
Something mooor,
For my soul,
Give me the buy,
In your fancy store,
Give me the buy,
Hopefully,
I can be mooor
I can make it feel mooor,
Poor craving soul.
Wants to buy,
Anything,

I want to buy in your store,
Something mooor,
Give me mooor,
mooor, mooor, mooor,
buy and buy, mooor,
Hopefully
I can be mooor,
I can make it feel mooor,
So much hope
For my soul,

Something to like,
the next moment
I don’t throw it away,
Looking to buy
Moooooor,
Happiness,
For my craving soul
Something
I don’t know,
Somebody help me!
Get out my soul!
Out from your store!

Please?!
Close the store door!
For my craving soul,
I’ll pay you,
Please?!
Just close that door!
For this craving Soul
I don’t know,
I look to buy,
I want to buy,
Something mooor,
For my soul,
I don’t know.
Inspired from a shopping trip I had yesterday at Winners store. The avid shoppers inspired this writing. There was a song rolling “ Give me more Happiness .“ I ended up with this poem in my pocket and more money for me ... 🧚‍♀️.
there’s only one place

where you can walk on the stars

just be sure

to keep your face forward

so not to step on any corpses
no notes, I think I get my point across lol
Keebo Jul 7
He has trouble letting go of bad memories  
It’s the only thing that keeps him company
Some people say he needs therapy
He whispers to himself daily

He doesn’t want to get rid of the pain
It reminds him life is just a game
But when the soul can’t take the strain
That’s when the fragile heart breaks

This happens to be the start of his art
He creates poetry so he doesn’t fall apart
He shares it with us so we can say
“**** man, I feel the same”

That is his aim, it helps him to stay sane
Reaching out to those who can relate
This could be his claim to fame
But writing will always be his main escape
I like to think the main goal for poets is to make those who are reading FEEL and lately it has made me reflect a lot on why I write and what I do it for so this is my ode...to myself
Carlo C Gomez Jun 21
She's in parties
& knees-up
She's half-seas over
& in the king's cup

She's in missionary
She's in backwards
She's on backseats
& dashboards

She's in fast lanes
& intersections
She's in full throttle
& Hail Marys

She's in obituaries
& cemeteries
for my addiction, i'd run a thousand miles
my addiction was very versatile;
sometimes found in a vial,
most of the times, juvenial
ALWAYS considered a lifestyle
Sharon Talbot Apr 29
Choices, so many choices:
Nordic noir or French comedies.
Bluegrass but not country.
Right wing or left wing:
What is useful and what is not?
Random violence doesn't help the plot.
Summer but not autumn
Moss gardens but not lawns.
The grass isn’t always greener,
Or didn’t you know?
British country houses or French chateaux.
Fishing for trout but not bass.
Sailing but no boats with gas.
Cycling but not motorcycles.
So many choices on which to pass.
San Francisco but not Las Vegas.
The Caribbean but not Florida.
Watching films of the desert but not being there.
Admiring the stars but not flying there.
Impressed by the horseman but not the cavalry.
Settling for Ubuntu but too tired for Kali.
Lumping things together is a bad recipe.
Living in Boston but not New York.
Eating peas with a spoon and not a fork.
Living like Dickinson but reading Walt Whitman.
Staying inside is nice; but run outside, shouting if you can.
Watching Downton Abbey on TV but not the screen.
Drinking mocha latte coffee but not tea with cream.
Loving travel round the world but hating the trip.
You can go exploring with your eyes but not your lips.
Deciding what's worthwhile isn't hard; just be resolved.
Critics tell you this or that, but can’t decide what's art or trash.
East or West Coast—why get involved?
Shuttle between them in electric hot rods.
Don't get bogged down with picking a god.
Followers always end up dead and all that matters
Is where they bury or burn you or scatter,
Whether you are declared saint or sinner.

But if I were one of them I would reconsider:
You can be a prophet, the calf that’s golden,
If enough of your votes are stolen.
You can even rule the world
If you ruin lives, steal countries and hurl
Thousands of lies online. These are the stakes.
"Lawyers, guns and money": that's all it takes.
The only real price will be your soul.
But do you believe in it when you get old?
Better make a simple choice.
Speak simply in a honeyed voice.
I read the news today,
Telling me which words to shout,
Make people ignore that time is running out.
Learn to step on them and which crimes to flaunt.
And how to get everything I want,
Then I can enjoy it as the storms rage round,
Live on the mountain as the sea waters drown
Everyone else—do I only need to save myself?
I've got a bombproof mansion underground.
I can hold out fifty years in such a spot....
I would be safe and comfortable,
But then, maybe not...
Paul Butters Apr 27
Covid 19 is shockingly lethal,
Killing thousands all over the world.
We are imprisoned in Pandemic Lockdown,
Confined to our homes for seemingly endless days.

Yet these clouds have silver linings.
No more daily social drinking for me.
Complete control of what I eat.
Time, oceans of time, to get my house in order.
Time to reflect and write.
I might even get
Into good shape.

The skies are clearing too.
Much less pollution
From factories and cars.
China can be seen from space
Free from smog.
Animals are returning.
We saw a squirrel in our close the other day
For the first time in twenty odd years.
And the gulls have come inland
For more food.
Chaffinches and robins on my lawns
And foxes even bolder than they were before.

All this is showing us:
There is another way.
We don’t have to ravage Mother Earth
Chop down the trees
Or fill the air with smoke.

Nor do we need to classify us all
As Patricians or Plebs:
Iniquitous inequality.
Or make Money our God
Like modern Midases.

There is indeed a better way.
Which begs the question:
What will it take to make the human race
See sense?

Paul Butters

© PB 27\4\2020. (Slightly amended 28\4).
In these trying times of The Pandemic.
Paul Butters Apr 19
Welcome to the Timeless Zone,
Vast as space and timeless as infinity.
A surreal dimension
Located somewhere between
A normal New Year 2020
And the imagined end
Of the Coronavirus Lockdown.

A dimension of sight, sound and mind
Taking us from the pit of superstition and fear,
To the sunlight of scientific knowledge.

The days pass endlessly
As we look for something to do
Again and again.
No meetings to go to,
Our year-planners and diaries
Consigned to being buried in dust.

Here we sit
In twilight:
Idly watching TV
Or catching up on household chores.
We take a daily walk
Even jog
And occasionally pop to the shops.

Shops that is, where you have to follow the arrows
Keep in your own little zone
Do Not Pass Go
Go straight to Jail –
I mean The Counter:
Once you have followed the maze
Of often empty shelves
Ransacked by Panic Buyers.

And at the counter you are served
By workers in gloves and plastic visors.
You must stay behind that line!

But mainly we sit like zombies,
Passing away the time.
At least the pressure is off:
Nowhere to go
Nothing to do.

But look!
A sign up ahead.
Maybe a crossing.
I hope it says
“The End”.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\4\2020. With due credit to “The Twilight Zone” TV series.
As we endure the Covid-19 Pandemic...
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