What We’re Made For
Take me as a weapon, one to win your war,
and when I stop, drop me to the floor.
Kick me to the side out of spite for your lost fight.
I was not made for this or for anything you would insist.
A shameful grimaced visage eats away at his face.
The eyes of a pauper’s son fall to the dirt—his cycle complete.
And as his red river greets my metal, I think that
maybe guns can cry too.
Too soon, had he polished on this shining sheen before he knew
I was not on par. With a war his folks beckoned to,
he wielded my paltry destruction,
for I was his only means of death.