Life As A Target

The bullet flies through the air

 I hold my breath

 I’m to young for death 

but the bullet doesn’t care it’ll hit someone so young

 that they never got to see the morning sun

 it’ll hit someone so innocent

 that they’d have blood the colour of snow 

were all just targets ligned up row by row 

there’s no way to know when your time is up

 you just have to trust your own luck

that when the bullet comes

it won’t get you

that if you have one final wish

that wish will come true

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Our world

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