Toddler With a Bomb

I pick up my pen,
Metaphor or no.
Write down my thoughts
On the violence.
If not to sway
At least to foster
Dialogue. Awareness
From a plastic perch,
Declarative statements
Made about humanity,
Horror, and the crossroads
Where they meet.

I pick up my gun,
Literal or no.
Make enemies of paper
Tigers, allies with
Affirming ignorance misers.
Drawing board battles
Won and lost while
More pain goes
Unseen, more accurate yet
Under utilized.

What would we all stand for?

If real life ceased to happen
Outside of our paper mache shells
What would be the glue to hold
Together our popsicle stick houses?
What wind blown news from beyond
The valley would we clumsily heave our kites
Into? Our small glowing screens would
Seem too small, too immunized against
Our eyes if they ceased to feed us
Reflections of reality.

What could we stand for?

So here is where I should
Demand, plead for, change!

Everyone turn your pockets
Inside out now! Look to life
Before and not beyond.

But I don’t think we could handle it.

We. Us.
Infants most, if not all, growing up
Giving up our maturation process for
Saturation and excess of the

And beyond the societal safe net
Worlds turn and passions burn.
Human nature is so explosive.
When those forced to deal with true
Tragedy without filler to insulate
Overflow we are left with situations
Dire, bombs of vehement emotion
Instinctually fashioned.

God forbid we ever actually lay
Hands on one. We’d wander into
The nearest social media service
Station, cardboard reputations
Bustling, flammable.
Though I can’t help but think
It wouldn’t be a bad thing
If the whole masquerade
Was made undone.

I pick up my pen
To write about the tragedies.
I pick up my gun
A bastian against the ulcers
Of humanity.
But I can’t find my footing
And I’m scared to ever actually
Gain a grasp. A toddler with a bomb
By its nature
Never could last.

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