why are so many people killing their children
the world’s gotten mean, kid—
meaner than the bars I used to crawl out of
at sunrise, smelling like the floor.
people walk around cracked open,
their nerves sparking like bad wires,
no poetry in them—
just pressure,
just the long slow squeeze
of bills and broken dreams
and the ghosts of their own childhoods
gnawing holes in the drywall.
and children—
God, children—
they come in soft,
wide-eyed,
trusting the hands that lift them.
they don’t know those hands
were taught fear like a mother tongue,
taught rage by example,
taught silence instead of help.
you ask why they kill them?
because some people were born
with their souls already limping.
because the world doesn’t fix
what it breaks.
because desperation is a tunnel
without an emergency light
and no exits stamped “mercy.”
and reincarnation—
yeah, that’s a dice game
played in the dark,
the table sticky,
the dealer crooked.
if there’s a next time,
you don’t get a chance
to peek through the blinds
and see who’s waiting to raise you—
you just tumble in,
headfirst,
hoping the landing isn’t
another bad story,
another tragedy printed in ink
too black to wash off.
but maybe—just maybe—
somewhere the wheel stops,
and a kid lands in a house
where the shouting is laughter,
where hands hold
instead of hurt.
until then,
the world keeps spinning,
and all we can do
is write it down,
light a smoke,
and hope like hell
that somebody, somewhere,
learns how to love
before the dice roll again.
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