The bullet… [POEM]

(…Ramblings of a murdered mothers son)

My mother
caught the better end
of the bullet
that killed her,
it killed her
filled her head
with lead
she bled
then she was dead.
the end

that is where
this life began,

The bullet

Dead people
don’t get depressed
and don’t stress
dead people don’t hurt
everyday after,
dead people couldn’t care
less
but care less
is impossible
when you are prompted to
question and assume
wonder and presume
work through the pain
unbearable
but consumed
with guilt and vengeance
regrets and remorses
forgiveness, forced
when
forces beyond your control
coerce you into conclusions
that you can never let go of
because you know,
the truth is something
you may never know of

they say
you should get over it
move on
get past the pain
shoulder it
accept what has changed
the older you get
but the older it gets
only proves
that closure is a myth
that some hurts never heal
some excuses are never real
some time will never reveal
the fortune of clarity
as if
understanding could ever exist

unsolved murder,
known assailant
I know who did it
says the D.A
but there is nothing I can do
says the D.A
how do you deal with that
every single day?
ask me

every person is a suspect
every conflict is a conspiracy
paranoid delusions
every day a different theory

Could I have stopped it
or changed the way
what if when she asked
I had decided to stay

The bullet,
should have hit me

and since
I became the monster
the bullet should have hit
angry and unapologetic
coping mechanisms
that compromised relationships
I can’t fix that
I can’t relate to this
so I hated it
internalized beyond control
a deep-seeded disdain,
I awakened it
hurt people hurt people
and all I did
was hurt people
questionable
motives directed
every second of regret
isolated, dissected

The truth is that I was mad
angry as hell,
sad
discouraged and enraged,
and it turned bad
no stage for grief
so I created it
defense mechanisms
that debated it

I wish I could have
given that bullet to you
so you could
know what it is like
to hurt constantly
to feel betrayed constantly
to be dismayed constantly
to be made, constantly
to hate everyone
without exception
to operate in the frustration
and fear weapons
to distrust so much
that you hear weapons
and not people
wanting the best for you
to want to cry, constantly
but only tear,
then see things clear,
pure evil
as it gets
the best of you

The bullet
tore through her flesh
but it stopped my progress
blue steel
got me blue, still
I’m blew, steal
obsessed with revenge
or objects
to distract me
let alone trying to stay alive,
actually
bullets have a price
that one cost me
everything

The bullet ricocheted
and hit her children
casualties of an un-fought war,
me and my siblings
zombies
cards passed to us
we’re not dealing
no full houses
no three of a kind
narrow straights
not even a small pair,
defined
flushed
bluffing
calling it all-in,
all the time
a bullet waged
all risk, no reward
and what for

Bullets take lives
but more importantly,
they take time
away
and they stray
wind up breaking things
un rewinding history,
taking things

The bullet, that bullet
made a hole
stole a parent
took a daughter
forced a move
bruised a family
damaged a reputation
unveiled a lie
pried apart a unit
ruined at least 3 lives
took away a sister
and an auntie
and a niece
but no one acts
like they miss her,
I see

post traumatic stress
doesn’t address the absence
that bullet manufactured

what are bullets made of?
not glue
not to harp
but where is the gun that fixes
the lives
that bullets break apart
the bullet must be made of
something sharp
because bullets
don’t put things together
the bullet pulled things apart

My mother
caught the better end
of the bullet
that killed her,
it killed her
filled her head
with lead
she bled
then she was dead.
the end

that is where
this life began,

a life of lies
and question
of guessing
who will kill me today?
how dead will they find me
will I ever be strong
enough
to face the facts
that my future
is behind me
but I am afraid to go back
so it will have to find me
instead I walk forward
in faith
or blindly

scared of a bullet
and other things
like getting close to people
and words like trust
and love
and family
and words like us
of having relationships
or systems that depend
when none of it matters
to people who pretend

like it never happened

Like I didn’t wake up
to a dead mother
and know who did it
and have all of
every reason
to have committed
retribution
but what use was I
as a motherless son
when every idea
of what to do
was what my mother
had done
and the bullet paid the price
for what my mother had done

no point in telling a story
that is not hard to believe
but imagine the story
that always leaves
what will always be

A great sadness
refuses to pass
and the real question
is refusing to ask
and I could have
explained it all away
but what sense
does that make

I didn’t hear that bullet
but the sound it made
was silence
shut up an entire community,
violence

mistakes are mistakes
no less the tragedy
the truth of being human
is no less of casualty
there is no lesson
in apathy
no lessening the expectation
of gravity
that bullet weighed more
than everything

you learn to be frigid
in cold temperatures
and when you’re told
the differences
why justice escapes
and what ridiculousness
it is to assume
that anyone with feelings
would care for
or about
you

The bullet
made it’s way
shot her in the head
but hit us in the face
collateral damage
or as they say,
survivors
the bullet made a liar
of God
and proved the staying power
of a scar
and successfully
loomed in the far
and has refused to go away
how could a bullet
work so slowly
if traveling at such a pace
such a waste of speed
traveling every day

disgust turns to disguise
turns to disgrace
turns to distance
turns away

and dead people
don’t have to decide
on whether to be optimistic
and they don’t have to
visit grave sites
that are home to coffins
or try to forget terrible things
that should be lost when
they happen
which is often
especially because of
bullets

Dead people aren’t confused
or in doubt
or afraid to live
without
Dead people don’t remember
or suffer from bouts
of the unbearable

that same bullet
still tears through

How do you duck
without warning
why are you stuck,
without wanting to be
Guns don’t kill people
bullets do
but what triggers a trigger
like a trigger pull
wanting to know answers
was a warning to me

The bullet
ruined everything

identity and definition
lost in the balance
confidence
lost in the challenge

My mother
caught the better end
of the bullet
that killed her,
it killed her
filled her head
with lead
she bled
then she was dead.
the end

that is where
this life began,

a life of isolation
an unintended consequence
wanting loneliness
unattended competence
stagnant delinquency
malfeasance
but I made it look easy

that bullet took everything
so easily

That bullet
killed the God
I knew
and the love I knew
and the life
I knew
total massacre
unknown caliber
everyone assumed I knew

so I was left to grieve
and gather
and believe that I’d rather
not
be better
had it never happened

What if the bullet
never happened…

-see

©2014 Cornelious “See” Flowers
@seethepoet

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