Bullets

The thing is when a gun is fired it’s bullets always hit something. They never miss their intended mark even if the shooter didn’t intend it. Sometimes it’s a tree, a wall, an innocent bystander, or a black boy running for his life.
And haven’t black people always been running from bondage, from our pain, from the hatred of others, from our hatred from one another. 

The thing is, blood appears blue in veins but when it drips out of you it’s red. So if we all bleed the same why is it blue vs. red why can’t we be transparent instead. Why are black boys still dying at the hands of other black boys. When will we realize that guns are not toys but killing machines and killing doesn’t make you cool but a coward.

One bullet can stop more than one heart.  They hit you even if they didn’t touch you at all. And there might be defibrillators for those affected but it doesn’t change the fact that you were not breathing for the months after you lost a child or a brother. Some may never breathe the same again, the air is different, it’s laced with gunpowder. And you can only feel hate for the person that gave that gun power to take that person away from you. That hate is like a bullet always projected somewhere, a never ending path of pain.

When guns go off they never stop firing, even if you can’t hear there hiss anymore, even after the last breathe is taken, even after the wound has stopped bleeding. Bullets always leave holes.

This poem is about: 
My community

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