UncontrolledA Poem by BrimAtMedAs bullets score the floor With statistics left coiled And lives left spoiled By another human being An agony we keep seeing In an America we keep deceiving Decreeing is safe To be To go To try My oh my that American dream Vanquished by a night lit up By sparks Of outcry and rage Left behind like the bodies In an attack’s wake Before the funeral So surreal Is this feeling of shock so powerful? That we often forget That every mass shooting Has a mass funeral? Every argument over mental illness Stomps on the illness left in hearts Of those left behind Undefined. What kind of mental illness could it be That spreads like wildfire in the sea Of love democracy promotes Denotes Devotes? What kind of mental illness could it be That distinguishes terror from terror Based on color Not action? We need action. Not reaction But proaction. As a kid, terror meant terror As older siblings and bullies terrorized And you felt terrified Of what’s to come. “Stand up for yourself” Says the dad to his son The mom to her daughter. As an adult, terror means nothing Less the color of the trigger isn’t white “Don’t stand up,” shouts the man Behind the counter As the man behind the pulpit Named executive Tweets “Get Down.” What a let down As Congress regresses And the public’s left digesting Another dozen stories left untold Dog tailed by explosions Never to be taken from their hallowed shelves. “Don’t stand up. Get down” Blame the man Not the gun A slogan of a generation Wrought with indignation Against the passing of potential Bills that could save lives. Blame the man Not the gun. But what if the world isn’t looking for blame But a locomotive of a congress no longer lame Ducking for cover? I don’t care who’s to blame I care who’s been slain Who's been discarded Disregarded By a populist that falsely promised dreams That were guised nightmares. © 2018 BrimAtMed |
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Added on November 8, 2018 Last Updated on November 8, 2018 Tags: gun control, angry, sadness, loss, loss of words, one seating Author
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