they sit in front of the screen,
blue light buzzing in their skulls,
plastic guns in Facebook hands,
outside, the sirens wail like hungry dogs,
the streets are cracked veins bleeding,
somewhere, a boy is learning to hate.
fists swing in school hallways,
knives flick open like second thoughts,
a mother checks the news,
sees another name,
another body,
another child gone.
we teach them how to kill before they learn to live,
show them war before we show them love,
give them bullets before we give them books.
men in suits count the profits,
smile as the numbers climb,
another war, another market,
another grave to dig.
and the kids, they dream in gunfire,
grow up with bruised knuckles,
hollow hearts,
laugh at the blood on their hands.
when did the world decide
that dead boys make good business,
that broken minds are easy to control?
turn off the screen.
open the window.
teach them something else.
I remain both surprised and alarmed
when revolutionary entrepreneurs,
AltRight survivalists,
poor and terrified AfricanAmerican and Hispanic young adult U.S. males,
and females,
and the National Rifle Association
vociferously agree with Chairman Mao
"Power is found at the end of a gun."
While alarmed
because violence breeds further mindless violence,
I continue to be surprised
because even a child could notice
Power originates from Earth's revolving
and enlightening
relationship to the Sun.
All other points of origin
are secondary,
derivative,
and perhaps not to be made too anthro-centrically much of.
reality is not for me
for the truth is to dark
for the eye to see
every little line
that was crossed
by he
who shall not be named
be changed nor slienced
but it is I who is stuck
in the mindless violence
in which is forever unchanging
so blinding and staining
he was one
in many I was supposed to trust
but he was another who was
bound by lust
and lost by favor
he who dared to question
save her?
no instead he just let me slip
and sink in a tainted sip
of poison
that touches my lips
that makes me scream
and ever so lifeless
here I am
stuck like this.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.