I won’t speak,
because my words are boomerangs,
that get caught in trees
and hang there, waiting,
Their potential rising,
my potential falling,
my humanity fading.

I’m a piece of art,
formed by bullet holes and stab marks,
colored by red dyes and little white lies.
There is an open wound in my chest filled with cheap literature.

As a child, I learned a lot.
I learned Art was a finished hand-made wooden light saber.
I learned that video games create another reality -
one where I am a Pokemon trainer and I can catch ’em all;
one where I love to be the bad guy.
But I can’t remember where I learned that kids being kids will carve you into an adult,
making you a half baked cake filled with too many hormones and no more childhood.
I don't know when I learned that Modern Warfare teaches kids that it’s okay to shoot words at each other,
I can’t think of the time where I learned that Grand theft Auto taught them to steal and to hit each other with words.
When did being the best bad guy in a game transfer to reality?

I've never been good at climbing trees;
maybe that’s how everyone else got my words.
Maybe that's why cheap Facebook literature exists,
so it can be a shield when my words come back to hit me.