#psa - Hello Poetry

Children fall often because they are looking up at the world around them, not at where they’re stepping. Their knees scraped on concrete, tears drying into salt on small cheeks. A teacher crouches beside them, hands gentle, voice quiet. "You have to watch where you’re going, sweetheart." And the child nods, solemn and small, believing that the worst thing that could happen to them is a fall. But the world changes shape around them. The floors become tiled, the doors heavier, the air thicker with warnings. Now, children fall not from clumsiness but from the speed at which a gunshot travels. The lessons they learn are no longer about letters or planets or how to apologize when you hurt someone’s feelings. They are about how to stay silent in the dark, how to hide behind desks, how to make themselves invisible. A siren is the new bell. A text to a parent, I love you, is the new prayer. Somewhere, a teacher holds the door shut with their whole body. Somewhere, a child counts to ten and doesn’t make it past five. The story repeats itself across states, across years, across headlines that blur into one another like a collective national stutter. Each one begins the same: It was an ordinary day. Each one ends the same: They never saw it coming. And between those two sentences is everything: the way parents stand behind yellow tape, trembling; the way backpacks are lined up in neat, lonely rows; the way a classroom can turn from a place of learning into a place of mourning in the time it takes a trigger to be pulled. We say thoughts and prayers like an incantation, a ritual for the living to comfort the dead. We raise flags, lower them, and raise them again, as if the metal pole could hold the weight of all these children’s names. And through it all, the world insists it is protecting itself. The adults look up at a blood-stained flag, at an amendment, at a gleaming metal idol they call freedom, while the children keep falling. We arm ourselves against ghosts while becoming them. We swear it’s about safety, but the safes are full of bullets and the schools are full of fear. I once heard a man say, "It’s not the guns, it’s the people." And I wanted to ask him, "then why are the people gone and the guns still here?" There’s a boy who used to draw superheroes in crayon, now immortalized in a mural holding a paper shield. There’s a girl who wanted to be a nurse, her photo smiling from a vigil lit by battery-powered candles that flicker like trapped fireflies. There’s a mother who still sets a plate at dinner, unable to stop feeding a ghost. And then there are the survivors, the ones who don’t fall, not yet. They grow up walking carefully, eyes fixed on the ground. They learn to fear loud noises, crowded places, memories that sound like gunfire. Some of them pick up pens, others microphones, others guns of their own. Some vow to change the world; some can’t stand to look at it. Because how do you grow up in a country that taught you to duck before it taught you to dance? Children fall often because they are looking up at the world around them, not at where they’re stepping. But now, the world around them keeps reloading; and the children are falling because the ground is littered with bullets and bodies.

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Apr 7

Apr 7, 2026 at 3:34 AM UTC

PenumbraPoet

- Children Fall Often -

Children fall often because they are looking up at the world around them, not at where they’re stepping. Their knees scraped on concrete, tears drying into salt on small cheeks. A teacher crouches beside them, hands gentle, voice quiet. "You have to watch where you’re going, sweetheart." And the child nods, solemn and small, believing that the worst thing that could happen to them is a fall. But the world changes shape around them. The floors become tiled, the doors heavier, the air thicker with warnings. Now, children fall not from clumsiness but from the speed at which a gunshot travels. The lessons they learn are no longer about letters or planets or how to apologize when you hurt someone’s feelings. They are about how to stay silent in the dark, how to hide behind desks, how to make themselves invisible. A siren is the new bell. A text to a parent, I love you, is the new prayer. Somewhere, a teacher holds the door shut with their whole body. Somewhere, a child counts to ten and doesn’t make it past five. The story repeats itself across states, across years, across headlines that blur into one another like a collective national stutter. Each one begins the same: It was an ordinary day. Each one ends the same: They never saw it coming. And between those two sentences is everything: the way parents stand behind yellow tape, trembling; the way backpacks are lined up in neat, lonely rows; the way a classroom can turn from a place of learning into a place of mourning in the time it takes a trigger to be pulled. We say thoughts and prayers like an incantation, a ritual for the living to comfort the dead. We raise flags, lower them, and raise them again, as if the metal pole could hold the weight of all these children’s names. And through it all, the world insists it is protecting itself. The adults look up at a blood-stained flag, at an amendment, at a gleaming metal idol they call freedom, while the children keep falling. We arm ourselves against ghosts while becoming them. We swear it’s about safety, but the safes are full of bullets and the schools are full of fear. I once heard a man say, "It’s not the guns, it’s the people." And I wanted to ask him, "then why are the people gone and the guns still here?" There’s a boy who used to draw superheroes in crayon, now immortalized in a mural holding a paper shield. There’s a girl who wanted to be a nurse, her photo smiling from a vigil lit by battery-powered candles that flicker like trapped fireflies. There’s a mother who still sets a plate at dinner, unable to stop feeding a ghost. And then there are the survivors, the ones who don’t fall, not yet. They grow up walking carefully, eyes fixed on the ground. They learn to fear loud noises, crowded places, memories that sound like gunfire. Some of them pick up pens, others microphones, others guns of their own. Some vow to change the world; some can’t stand to look at it. Because how do you grow up in a country that taught you to duck before it taught you to dance? Children fall often because they are looking up at the world around them, not at where they’re stepping. But now, the world around them keeps reloading; and the children are falling because the ground is littered with bullets and bodies.