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Juliana 3d
Thirty dead.
Forty-two injured.
In forty-eight hours.
Two hundred and fifty mass shootings in eight months.
Thousands dead.

Are you kidding?
Is this really what we are?
It's not the time to talk about gun laws?
People are dying at elementary schools, at bars, at Walmart!

I tried to be sensible.
I tried to see both sides.
But I can't anymore.

These aren't just numbers.
These are people.
These are lives.
These are stories.
These are husbands and wives, children, parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends.
One death does not only impact one person.
In fact, the dead has the least amount of pain.
That one dead impacts hundreds of lives.
A lifetime of sadness.
I feel for the victims, I do.
But I ache for the families.
For the friends.
For the community.
I ache for the shooter, for his family.

He did awful things.
Unspeakable crimes.
There is nothing worse than taking a life.
But he is gone too.
His family lost someone too. Someone they loved.
Someone they cared about.
Their lives are forever changed, as well.

We need to change these idiotic laws.
We are the only respected nation with mass shootings in the double digits.
Hell, we have TRIPLE digits!
Gun ownership is NOT a right.
Gun ownership should not be a right.
I have said this more times than I can count.
Dear Mr. Gun Lover, sir, if you have a right, a truly inalienable right, than so do these shooters.
Please don't let the number become two hundred and fifty one.
It is on you. It is on all of us.
Juliana 3d
"Guns don't **** people, people **** people."
If guns don't **** people, then why have over 39,773 people fallen at the hands of a gun?
Over 39,773 bullets have hit our skin, penetrated our insides, for them to never come out with us still breathing.
If guns aren't the problem, and people are, then shouldn't we ban everything people **** with?
Let's ban cars, hammers, knives, water, air, fire, and food.
**** it, let's cut off our own two hands while we're at it.
But here's the problem: I sound ridiculous.
We need cars to travel.
Hammers to build.
Knives to cook.
Water to drink.
Air to breath.
Fire to heat.
Food to eat.
And guns to...
We need cars, knives, and food. They have a purpose, a reason.
But guns?
A gun's purpose is to ****.
To do harm.
We don't drive guns, cook with guns, or use guns for fuel.
We use, always have used, and always will use guns for one and only one purpose:
To ****.
To do harm.
To hurt.
So, I don't care if it's the gun or the person doing the killing.
What matters is that someone dies. What matters is that over 39,773 people have died.
39,773 lives lost, never to be seen or heard from again.
What matters is that even one life gone, is a life inexcusably lost. Forever.
Juliana 3d
A laugh.
An expression of joy, comfort, serenity.
A tool to say:
I see you.
I appreciate you.
I don't.
I mock you.
To show hate.
To show that I,
Am better.
Than you.
Than a creator.
An artist.
Someone I should appreciate.
Someone I should respect.
Someone who gave me their heart.
Their movement.
Their joy.
And I laughed,
And I scoffed,
And I spat in your face.
And to think;
A twix could solve this
Rift between us.
I devoured your feelings.
Your meaning in this world.
Your poetry, your song.
What about this can nuget not fix?
A crunchy bar,
Filled with caramel,
And a golden copper shell.
A treat for your troubles.
An apology;
For a sin,
About to be repeated.
You gave me your heart.
Your song.
Your memories.
And I scoffed at them.
But I had the right.
And a twix bar,
Was my apology.
Before I did it again.
A laugh.
I don't like sharing.
Or letting you into my space.
I have a hard time with being kind.
Judgements come naturally.
Strangers can be punchlines.
Your feelings may bother me.
I want you to like me.
But I may not like you.
My first impression of you,
Sticks even when I'm wrong.
I don't like how I am.
I've said I would change.

I haven't.
But I wish I would.
Okay so I was listening to Beetlejuice, and he sings
'Jesus pass the Dremamime'
And I knew it was a drug, but I didn't know the effects. Turns out it causes halluciations. Well, that's the main thing, there are a lot of side effects. And to be honest, hallucinating explains a lot about Beetlejuice, and the whole musical.
You'll get a whole lotta these
JB Sep 12
I'm not going to rant to you
as you may not understand

You have always said
promised to me, over and over again
that you will be there to talk to
if i ever dare feel the need

In a moment of weakness
i try to use the words
that i know you will not understand

english is a harsh language
With hard, stiff, stone letters
Sharp words
The tough, callused hand
better at beating you down
Than helping you up

Other languages
A way to comfort you in a relation
a way to turn these stiff ways of the tounge
to silk and fresh water
to something
easily, gentally, softly felt
As smooth as a cold, gliding glacier's stream

English is the langague
for facts, explanations
plain, blunt topics
It's hard to have words for feelings
ways of the heart
But other lanauges don't have words for such things
They have words, phrases, exchanges, dialects, customs
for moments
for memories
for dreams, almost out of reach

So when I try to explain to you
What i am going through
behind the "I'm fine."

"You know what I mean?"
"Uh, not really"
Well ****
Now you know the thoughts inside my head
Twisted by your interpritaion
your intake
of me
Aaron LaLux Sep 7
...on a tangent,
writing lines on my laptop as my emotions run rampant,
in a parking lot outside a Sprouts on Santa Monica Blvd.,
typing vows like they might make some kind of difference,
woke up, restless, on the wrong side of the bed today,
welcomed back, to this Waking Life with tightness in my chest,
& this relentless feeling of eternal loneliness I can’t shake,
which has got me thinking, maybe some souls can’t be saved,
& maybe that’s why I’m now sitting in my car,
with tears in my eyes & nowhere to drive,
because there’s nowhere I want to go,
other than back to the one place where my love was denied,

the only place I want to go,
is back into the arms of the one that let me go,
but she’s so far gone memories seem like only dreams now,
even though I’m not dreaming, I’m wide awake, woke,

I feel so far away from her, for real, it’s almost unbearable, tears start to flow, I think about taking my own life, but don’t,
instead I shake it off, write it down, get these words out of me, to show we all hurt & it’s okay to lose control,

& yeah I know I’ve got nothing really to complain about,
because I’ve got a great life & all that,
but knowing my life is better than most of those in this world,
doesn’t really make me feel better or enhanced,
in fact, it actually makes me more depressed,
it makes me wonder what hope we have left,
as the forests burn, the wars rage,
& the polar bears frantically panic on ever melting ice caps,
& I’m constantly aware of all of these obvious facts,
& maybe that’s why I’m in my car with tears in my lap,
lost with no motivation running out of time & patience,
can’t see a future, feel the present, or remember the past,
This Unruly Mess We’ve Made looks great, shout out to Mac,
but it wasn’t built to last so how much more can it withstand?...

excerpt from poem #63 of THHT3:
The Hollywood Hearts Trilogy Vol 3
available worldwide 9/9/19
Yeah, You're really easy to write about. Some people are hard to capture. Not because they aren't 'deep,' but because they just don't have that thing. That thing that makes you turn your head around again becuase you just want to have another look at those eyes. Maybe this will help explain. You have people, and some of those people are really good at writing. And some aren't. Now imagine if you take a really good writer, and someone who struggles with it, to write a poem that captures the beauty and feeling of, for example, a broken window. Someone who's good at writing, good at seing the beauty and the broken in things, can write it down with so much ease. On the contrary, someone who doesn't see it, it's way harder to write everything just about right down. I feel like I'm one of those people who can turn everything into poetry. And you said, you never expected someone to write about you. But I know, and I'm sure of it, that if you ever met another poet, they'd write about you too. Because every poet I know, would turn their head around too.
I sound stupid af but this dumb **** needed to get out.
Ritz Writes Sep 2
Overwhelmed with guilt, how can the thoughts be spoken and understood when gamut of emotion is playing over your head?
How could you fall asleep when there are uncertainty with every storm to face and void to fill?
Why are you shutting your eyes in anguish and lament in your sleep? Why do anger on the nerve will never settle down at ease?
Did you take a moment to walk in someone else's shoe?
Did you think twice before the words blatantly ended up hurting someone's pride?
Perhaps, we are rotten from inside with no room for anyone.
The house will remain a facade,the kids will value gadgets over bonds. Perhaps you're just a loving dead,
waiting for the reaper to steal your soul. Perhaps, you could have been a better human; a better father, a better brother, a better love.
With all the sorrows and stoical face, wait for your departure old man! Will meet you when the world ends, on the other side.
Axxsh Sep 2
like bricks in a wall
we fall under the category of Filling the columns.

*like a cry from a mortal
who writes letters to get his words in place
so i send 'em through a time portal
as he lives in a different age,
making my piece immortal.
resuscitating minds in their conclusive days*/

the way to my sanctorum
filling the void, in place by the devastation caused by your ammunition.
a threat to the decorum(of the living world)
//all the universe's spheres combined
still wouldn't fit the diametre of the iris in my eyes\
when i see through you
see THROUGH your mask you
put on to remove the pollution
purifies the skin
and leaves you with
white and glowing
insecurities and commotion.

people flew with the notion
selling their psych in portions
if i would've bought it
then they would've called it
profit in oceans.
Every year you grew more insensitive
and called it promotion.
through the strands of your hair
i see a clock
with each of its hands facing the opposite of one another
as dynamic as the hues of your face
but in the center.. have the same colour
a ***** of your nail in my back causes
the epiphany to rupture,
so either im too much into hating you
or half past the other.
2 seperate pieces...for some unexplored cant be presented without the other, in my mind. doesn't really make sense...doesn't have to.
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