I would like to share with you my enduring
Memory with guns,
Never forgotten, a difficult story.
In my home Summer of 93 was born
From the dry sun and certain colors,
Not the forsaken flowers,
But the rags of gangsters,
The survival of the unfittest like
Certain carnivores on a plain,
Tired of the slums from people whom
Live unmajestic lives.
For a summer
Bullets had no names weekly,
A repugnant visiting crisis and I lost
My bed to fear,
One longs for a night with no bullets
Flying by,
And a dream without the oppressive
Gunshot just above my head board,
A consolation in the morning's sorrow.
Everyday a new hole discovered,
Everyday thinking
"I'm lucky to be alive"
No.
All my heart aches
Because one night a bullet had a name,
And the bullet came for Mother
Never to return to the earth,
In the blossoming summer
All I knew was death,
Death with a barrage of gunfire
From the breast of destiny,
Full in my heart was vengeance,
12 years old and lost in the womb
Of the Barrio.
Like a madman,
For I was no longer a child,
The bullrush of thoughts come clean.
Memories without veils,
Like an angry widow resting
In indifference, with an evening
That arrives with an eruption .
A penetrating glare from my eyes,
Between youth and death,
I will tell you about my enduring sorrow,
And a 12 year old carries a gun.
My personal experience, no opinions just my experience.
