I love my Gun

A poem I wrote a while ago that is still somehow an apt description of the most acute American mental illness

I don’t care how many
Warm bodies are slumped 
In churches 
And movie theaters 
And wal-mart

Little children lifeless
Blood soaked backpacks 
Final moments feeling fear
Only tasted once before 
Upon seeing a fat fuzzy
Bumblebee 
And shrieking 

Because I wasn’t there 
with my Gun
Someone else was there 
with their Gun

I’m a good guy
Protecting my home, my family
Like in the movies
Brandishing my Gun
And shooting the bad guy in 
The arm or knee
Seeing their face twist in pain
As my PlayStation crashes to the ground
A perfect marksman
A cowboy
A cop
A hero

Someone will
Love me 

I cannot escape the violence
I’m so afraid
So afraid of everything