I can’t keep
Them straight in my head anymore-
The shootings.
The victims.
The gunmen.
The guns used.
Vegas.
The hotel. The windows of the hotel.
From the window of the hotel.
The concert.
The nightclub.
They were dancing.
They were young.
They were shot. Hiding in the bathroom.
At the school. In the classroom.
In Florida.
In Virginia?
In New York.
At Church.
They were old.
They had survived tragedies.
Only to be shot-
In school
While dancing
At church
While praying
During College Night
In Thousand Oaks
Doing yoga
They were
Women
They were men
They were just kids
They got shot
Hiding in the bathroom
On Lockdown
In Starbucks
At the concert
While they weren’t looking
While he reloaded
And they were trying to get out
Trying to escape
They got shot
With an assault rifle
A war weapon
Something about “multiple magazines”
They died
At school
In kindergarten
They were 6.
They were in High School
They had just transferred
He was about to retire
She wasn’t going to go that night-
He’d just moved there-
They were all shot
And they didn’t die right away.
Because they released cell phone footage of the massacre on YOUTUBE-
And my kids saw it-
And we all
Died
Inside.
Because
It’s
Happening every day…
To every body…
All of the time…
Am I going to get shot?
At church?
In the movie theater?
While I’m dancing?
I’m young…
With a war weapon
While I’m not looking
Or will I get a call?
That it’s my child-
Laying lifeless in
A bar with all the lights on now.
Would she have been trying to escape?
With her friends-
On lockdown- in
The Starbucks bathroom
Were they all scared
Was God there-
Did they have a chance to pray-
In the church
On the dance floor
At school
In the movie theater…
Will they get shot when they are old and I am gone
And they survived this lifetime of tragedies?
I can’t keep them straight in my head anymore.
The shootings.
The victims.
It’s everywhere.
It’s everyone.
It’s me.
It’s you.
It’s WAR.
Photo Credit: Quentin Verwaerde Flickr via Compfight cc
So painful to read.. and so profound. It is war good against evil…powerful poem