will you remember we when i'm gone? when a madman takes his aim? when the only thing that's left of me is a flowered picture frame? will you remember me when i die? when his bullets pour down like rain? when i'm paved with all these bullet holes, tell me who will take the blame? tell my mother i won't be home. tell my father i wasn't fast. because these guns always come first and my education comes last. what will the politicians say? when they announce my death on screen? can they imagine all the pain i'm in as i'm ripped to smithereens? girls with gun powder for guts, boys with bullet holes for eyes, looking overhead in heaven, buried beneath a bleeding sky

do you care? do you care for these kids? these who lay beside me? i grip child hands between puddles of cold blood but nothing ever seems to change. i'm living on the foundation of death; no revolution to be found. fifty stars. one nation. fifty dead kids. one gunner. the resemblance of freedom and resistance clash together, pouring out the flag. how can i be free if i must pay with my life? i must ask again: do you care? will you tell them about this murderer? the one you'll call a 'troubled boy'? i bet you won't. i bet you can't. it's not in your nature to tell the truth. you dodge these question how i dodged those bullets. i've learned everything from you: a black boy is a thug. a muslim girl is terrorist. a mexican teen a drug dealer. an asian girl is just a machine. but where is his label? i've worn mine all my life and yet his stays clean. he sips on the nightmares of columbine, dancing on pulses in the middle of the night. he's a monster. not a boy with a gun. this boy is a weapon.

oh but, let's idolize him. the troubled boy. the boy with a demented mind. a tragic past. suburban girls getting drunk on the idea on loving the unlovable. teenage girls writing their fics to save his soul from impending doom. sending him letters of angsty woe and star-eyed visions. they make me choke on disgust. fuck you. fuck all of you. i'm tired of living this way. aren't you? i'm tired of holding the hand of my dead brother. all he says day in and day out is that it hurts and how much he wants to go home. but you can't really bring a half blown corpse to home can you? i should've been the one to die. not some fucking six year old. now i'm left with his ghost. (i feel his fingertips trace my skin. he calls me sister.) but i guess it really doesn't matter in the end does it? so keep on writing your mushy prose of rotten affection. take your pseudo lovesick hearts and pour out your emotions to a boy who feels nothing. i wonder if a planted a bullet in your brain, a gun in your mouth will you still write those letters? would you write letter to me? would you love me too like you love him?

i'm tired of feeling this way. i'm tired of feeling like i should of died. so maybe i should. i should've taken the bullet. i didn't have to cower. but here i am living on a land empty of revolution. maybe i should shoot a politician's son and see how he feels. would he weep? would that change anything? i want change. i'm craving change like starving man lost of hope. i'm tired of feeling tired so maybe i should just sleep. this guilt weighs too much on my chest and i'm just afraid no else will listen. i march on but the battle haunts me. all i hear are screams and i can't go back to bed. this madness form of my sanity. and all i want to do is forget. i want to be whole again. i want the peace to settle in my flesh like the clouds after a storm. i want to be reborn. rise like the ashes of jesus after his piercings. i want too. i want to so bad.

but i'm just so afraid if i forget then the rest of the world will too.

again. and again. time. after time.

i'm tired.

~art~