American Contusion

All you see on the news lately is stuff about how we’re all gonna die.

What’s the point? Why try?

Because it seems that anything we do now won’t matter. It’s too late.

We’ve sealed our fate.

People are still shooting each other over color. Black vs. Blue.

Like a bruise, fighting itself.

The contusion drawing the conclusion that nothing can be done to fix this.

Violence is not the solution. Bullet wounds and death are not the answer.

Instead of trying to fix this we just report what happened and move on.

Just keep going. Who will stand up?

I can’t. I’m not a cop, and I’m white. There’s only so much I could do.

I don’t want to vote this year, I’m glad that I’m too young to.

These decisions are too hard. More or less evil? Either way we’re doomed.

I can’t help but think that maybe I should just move. Take cover.

Because when these huge tensions release, I don’t wanna be around.

Bombs keep hitting this ground.

I want to make it stop. But how? What could I possibly do to stop corruption?

How can I make people see that Black Lives Matter?

How can I make everyone, black, blue, white, no matter the color, see that violence never solves anything? It just makes people weaker and no longer able to fight.

This country is a contusion.

It is a bruise that will beat itself to death.

Unless someone stops it… So someone out there… stop it.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world

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