Humming Bird

Whenever I hear gunshots
All I hear are screams of hatred.
I see the hatred in the face
Of a person firing a pistol
Thinking

Die. Die. Die.

With sport a hunter shooting its game;
In a drive-by shooting;
The hatred of bullets
Fired in retaliation,
Blood thirst vindication,
Screaming

Die. Die. Die.

Police firing forty plus shots
When one gets the job done,
Enemies in a war
All screaming through their guns
Damn you!

Die. Die. Die.

Even when one must shoot
In self defense, unless
You aim for the feet of your assailant,
But hardly,
More likely
Subconsciously
Praying

Die. Die. Die.

What I think of is the moment
The brain decides to pull the trigger,
The thought must be
Before the callused squeeze
Please

Die. Die. Die.

I’ve once felt that aggression,
I’ve once felt that hatred.
I was ten
I shot a b.b.
At a humming bird


On the branch It lingered
As I watched
It grasped on to the tree
Like the tree was Its life
And It clung on for dear life

But It plopped down,
To this day I still hear the sad-sad sound
Of Its body hitting the cold-cold ground,

The sound of Its life seeping out
Into nothingness
Like air from a flat tire.
Nothing to comfort It
Besides me, Its killer
And with each breath

It die (inhale), die (exhale), died (expired)