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More Punch, Dr. Kevorkian?


Guest Rustic Monk

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Guest Rustic Monk

NOTE: I just want to let you know, up front, that you may find this a little disturbing.

More Punch, Dr. Kevorkian?

Gabriel Duncan

Baby’s got a 45 in the locker

Clips, two more grenades

And a bottle of monster

She hates that everyone taunts her

It’s a surprise that no one even bothers

Walking down campus

You can spot her from a mile away—

Mowing down students with an AK

It doesn’t have to be this way

Some might plead

“Anyway,” she’ll scream, “Get on your fucking knees!”

Now she lives forever on that day

Let’s not be romantic

She just came here to spray

Life took her pleasure

Now she’ll take it all away

She came here for the vengeance

Against what she can’t name

But she’s not seeking repentance

She wants to kill it the same

Once the helicopters circled

She put on a show

She executed people

With a loose, sideways blow

She thought it was something

The voyeurs would love

So much they’d fill frames

With bodies and blood

The stretchers,

The screaming,

Flailing and crying

The parents,

The president,

A reactive society

She’d be the center, once and for all

She could tell everyone

How much she hated them all

But then she remembered

It wouldn’t work if she was dead

So she decided to send her manifesto, instead

Send it next day delivery, so when it was read

She’d be on the news with a gun to a head

And it happened just like this

But then she gave everyone her special twist

When negotiations grew pallid

So much, SWAT would make risk

She cut from her neck

Straight down to her wrist

She looked straight through the camera

Into America’s soul

And she bled it all out

Then her body went cold

And we watched it all

With un-blinking stares

When the commercials never came

We became slowly aware

That this wasn’t a trick

A gimmick or a play

That those poor people

Were truthfully slain

No matter what sense

Of false-normalcy we maintained

Things subtly

Were never the same

The thing that brings us together

Is the hate we feel inside

For the trends that we follow

The person we hide

Is the grease on the slide

Are the bullets in the gun

It’s too easy to get famous

The sickness has won

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I'm bad at deciphering meanings of poems. If you're writing about the growing trend of mass murderers who go out and kill for fame and glory, then the poem isn't disturbing. It's the truth of the matter that is disturbing. I'm guessing there's a meaning behind the gunman being a she instead of a he.

I could go on about how anti-second amendment laws and people only hurt the lawful and help the criminal, but I save you all from that.

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Guest Rustic Monk

actually, I think this poem is good, better than the first one i came up with. but . . . it's still not there. i think there are too many different ideas and parts that are going into this that makes it confusing.

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