Borderline

Senseless! Senseless! Everything is senseless

a chasing after the wind.

 

Columbine. Sandy Hook. Route 91. Pulse. Pittsburgh Synagogue.

 

So many tragedies that it’s become a list,

a statistic, a common occurrence.

Just one angry deed among many,

occasionally worthy of momentary fame

as tragedy gives way to normalcy.

 

Borderline.

 

Thousand Oaks.

That’s not a statistic. That’s my home.

My home is small, aesthetic restaurants

usually seafood, mexican, or burgers

and family-owned bars, public parks,

the disc golf course behind the high school,

the coarse, wet sand of Zuma Beach at high tide,

hours spent hiking trails high and low in Wildwood,

or the plastic boothes of In-N-Out Burger.

One of the safest towns in the state – in the country.

 

My home has been violated.

My home has been shot, a wound still bleeding,

a wound that reopened countless others

that should have hurt far more than I let them.

Why do we let ourselves become

calloused to catastrophe?

Why doesn’t it hurt us

that somewhere in the US

someone is hurting?

When we hear of mass murder,

we murmur momentarily

and move on with our monotony.

 

Break                               the cycle.

This is a crisis

of unparalleled proportions

and of unsurmounted apathy.

 

We hear the pop

 

of a news post

but do not stop to mourn.

If not in the evening,

then by the next morning,

we have even forgotten.

 

What can we do to awaken our souls

and shake ourselves out amnesia’s grasp?

 

Our state of mind is not mindful of our state.

This country has been pushed to its breaking point,

to the end of its frayed rope. To its borderline.

 

And something has to change.

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