Has A Dream Poem by Brianna Stuckey

Has A Dream



I tug at my arms, the jacket that is draped over them.
I feel the wind in my hair, soaking me.
I see they are angry, looking at me, loathing me.
Im a pest, a type of stoat.
I feel stuck, as if I'm in a moat.
Am I here? Is this real? Oh god, I hope not.
I hope and I hope, and I….. I hear a gun shot.
Piercing and stretching through the air,
Fiercely hitting my chest, splattering dark blood in my hair.
I did not want this! I wanted peace! How is this fair?
They don't know how it's to be me, or do they even care?
I used to be a god.! A type of lares.
That is, before the evil hearts came pouncing, more than the hostile glares.
Now those who care, sit, hearts bouncing, in the hospital chairs.
I did not want war, of course that is not what I wished for.
I came past this! I can! I will! Then Ill say,
I came past this!
They can shoot,
They can aim,
They can smile with bliss..! ! !
But they'll make me happy,
when
they
miss.

Monday, March 31, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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