.

.

I will be immune
From the repeated deaths fed to my feed.
From the blood-gut-wrenching sights-sound-scents
From feeling the pain of each and every one left to mourn
From the rhetoric of “not my fault” from those at fault
From feeling anything of what you feel when
You are ripped by savage death

I am
Immune

.

.

Soundbites bite.

Repeated enough they become truth
They never were and never are

But we will allow

For they fit our timetable of outrage
And discomfort of connection

For a millisecond

Before being washed clean
By the next embalming

Human-interest-story

A few words sown
To root and grow

Where they fruit my soundbites …

“Not my fault”
“Perhaps more needs to be done”

And yours …

“We have allocated £xm to our relevant agency partners”
“We think of the families and pray for them”

.

.

WTF … 
Where are ALL us INDIVIDUALLY in this 
people AND parents who are ALL human beings?

.

Buy a gun a big-bad-boy-gun feel the power
Soar high on the buzz the thump the snap the fear
Fire those soundbites that bad boy enough
You’ll convince yourself

I have rights you have rights
When they come for you

Gotta stand up gotta do
What you gotta do.

.

.

Make me immune dear Lord.
Meet me where I am but leave me always
Passively unchanged and consciously unmoved.

Make me immune of all responsibility
For planting-growing the not my fault beliefs
The ones I swear blind that I could never-ever sow.

But most of all, dear Lord, I pray
Keep me from ever feeling anything
That causes me to be changed.

These three things I pray.

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