Dear Number 45
A freestyle poem
This ain’t gunplay
This is take a nursing baby out his mother’s arms on a Sunday
Avocado farmers can’t find workers to work to death under the sun’s rays
We’re still stabbing people for being gay
This is tell your deadbeat dad Happy Father’s Day anyway
Letting the semi–automatics spray
In schools
In churches
Are your precious gun laws worth it?
Do living kids fit in your self–proclaimed purpose?
Throwing out bible verses
On the surface
Like it hasn’t always been–
You versus
The brown–the poor–the “imperfect”
But on the inside you’re nervous
All your broken promises have become heavy burdens
Thoughts running around like a circus
Signing your name on corrupt laws in sloppy cursive
I’m certain
Your demise will be televised
Before we close the curtain
On the greedy thieves you worship
–BFoundAPen
