Acne & Guns

Festering pockets of warm fear–

parallel tears chasing and comforting one another as they free fall to new depths,

it was only this morning this rebel was a child.

See the youth in his stance, as knocked-knees beg for mercy.

Immaturity lives in his eyes as they flailingly search for directions in unanswered query.

Watch him pull a trigger, and be forced back by a strength greater than his will to stand.

Gunpowder entering his lungs, staining his sight, dirtying the stark resolve once sheltered in a now stone-cold, lifeless, still murmuring heart.

His heart is quiet and his spine, without life.

Even still, he feels

Death his daily bread, he begs to be stilled, filled.

Festering pockets burst and leak his resolve down, down, down past craters of his face.

Bloodied only after incessant manipulation,

it was only this morning this rebel was a child.


*this poem was written yesterday, I just didn’t post! Hope you love it and share!



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