Just a quick poem I threw together voicing my views on shootings of all types. |
The time is now, and the time is here. Or, the time could have passed, for I wish not to strike fear. A 9mm finds its way to school, concealed by fits of rage, numerous times he was told he wasn't cool, and his response would make his life turn a dire page. Enter a "self-less valiant" man, forever to be known as that, a hero on this day. Yes, he had come with a plan, but was unable to prepare for what was to come his way. A boy falls to the floor, stricken by the impact of the shot. His life is no more, and the false memory of him will not be forgot. They say: "he wasn't even supposed to go to school today..." that soon he was to be off on vacation. But death will be the last words his body language will say, and after, he'll be off for his final destination. Years later now we can catch up with our zero, who fell so valiantly from the pedestal of a hero. Yes it was not the bullied boy who had fired the shot, but instead it was the jock, the kid they called hot, the kid who had everyone wishing they were in his spot. His "happy little haven" he'd come to live in at school, hadn't actually been his idea of cool. Though nobody saw it, he was quite misunderstood, Had pent up anger fueled by ramblings of the hood. So with the gun in his hand, he made one final choice, that the life he would take would be someone with no voice. To him it was interesting, intriguing, impelling, being able to take a life. He had no idea nor understood that the result would be strife. He figured, "what difference does it make if this is the soul that I take?" With no time he made this decision, he left nothing to contemplate. And with this final decision, he raised the 9 to the back of our hero's dome, and the rumored words people swear he uttered: "don't try this at home." |