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Always a Bullet

A Poem

Somewhere, a boy stands, a gun in his hand, a thought in his head.

Somewhere, the same boy stands, holding a gun in his hand, holding a box of bullets in the other.

Somewhere, this boy stands, holding a gun in his hand, holding a box of bullets in the other, embracing a burning hatred, a fire, in his heart.

Somewhere, another boy stands, holding a sheet of paper, covered in blood.

Somewhere, the same boy stands, holding the sheet of paper, a plan; a plan to kill. 

A plan to take something so precious; something from somebody else, something that they hold and cherish so closely, that they can't let go of. Something they are holding onto with the last strands of dignity and hope and love and lust but is about to be ripped away from them because of the same thought, the same bullet, the same gun, the same blood-soaked piece of paper.

This person molds themselves; they spread apart. This person becomes 17 different people, this person becomes these people. These people go to school, they leave their families, the same thought in their heads, that everything will be alright today, this is the day that they will pass that test, that they will score on the girl that they like, that they will win that basketball game, but will it be okay? Will today be alright?

These people don't return home that night. These people leave this earth that night. These people scream that night. These people make their families cry that night. These people hurt their souls; these people. These people, these people. These people. These people.

These people.

17 lives.

17 souls.

17 bullets.

A bullet, multiple bullets, 17 bullets. Once a bullet, always a bullet, is never a bullet.

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Always a Bullet
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