The effects of a past riddled with bullets;
empty shells, empty lies,
hit the pavement,
resounding with the weight of all lies past.
You can't tell me, with all of these wounds,
parts of us didn't die.
What's more is that somehow,
the recoil of the weapon
injures the attacker as well, if not more than us.
Bit why heed the pain of a dislocated shoulder?
For while he's shooting at us,
there is a legion shooting at him
and like him, we all decide we're tired of the abuse.
We'll load our guns and shoot widely in the wrong direction,
our broken bodies, a reflection of all the ones before us,
and all the bodies we'll leave behind
when we, ourselves, hit the pavement
and dwell amongst the empty shells.