Poetry

Part 1: She

She tuned out all the noise around her to
Resolve the last equation in her head.
It is a thing resourceful students do
To bide their time on school bus rides instead.
She owed her sanity to math and shop
The numbers and the wood were her recourse
From arguments at home that wouldn’t stop
And parents inching closer to divorce.
But how she loved her sister very much,
Her twin, her friend for life, it made her smile
To feel her sister’s hand reach out and touch
Her own, they sat together for a while.
They left the bus and parted ways for class,
That’s when she saw him standing on the grass.

Part 2: He

The grass was wet, but he was feeling dry,
Although he hadn’t slept the night before,
He didn’t spend a moment thinking why:
That ship had sailed and left behind, the shore.
He’d known the combination all along
And found in there the fully loaded Glock
He’d long believed that he didn’t belong
The time had come to break free from the flock.
He chucked the cigarette and made his way
Across the yard without another thought
Then walked right in (was just another day)
Without the slightest care he would be caught.
He went straight down the hallway and began
To execute more than his deadly plan.

Part 3: They

She set the papers in the usual place
As tiny feet tapped syncopated beats
To send a golden sunshine to her face
That greeted students rushing to their seats.
The ultrasound had said it was a boy,
Then someone made a joke about her size,
She joined the laughter, planning to enjoy
Whatever kept the humor in her eyes.
She passed the graded papers out before
Announcing there would be another test,
Then touched her belly lovingly once more.
And that was when she felt the need to rest:
Why was the flooring pressed against her cheek?
She couldn’t breathe, nor had the strength to speak.

Part 4: We

They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead.
They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead.
It was supposed to be another day.
Tomorrow may be just another day.

I'm on my back, and staring into space
And though my eyes seem vacant, they are filled
With broken spirits from another place
Where mothers watch their children being killed.
It doesn't matter who the killers are,
It doesn't matter who the bleeding be,
What matters is that although I am far,
I feel the dark effect it has on me.
For laying frozen on my bed, I stare
As if each passing second is my toil
Against this grave oppression laying bare
My shallow games of empathy that spoil
An evening of laughter, games and fun,
And lists of silly things that must be done.