This is a poem I wrote entitled, "The merciless murder of 18."
Sometimes I see news headlines.
“18 people were killed in a massacre!”
And people will cry, but forget the next day.
I think that's such a small reaction.
Those were 18 people.
18 human beings who lived on our planet.
18 people who had goals and dreams.
18 futures they probably wanted to seize.
And it makes me sad.
That same thing could have happened to me.
It could have happened to my sister, my mother, my friends.
But it wasn't. So it's fine.
Those were 18 people.
Whose voices I will never hear.
Whose stories I will never learn.
Whose faces I will never see.
I can just imagine those 18 people.
Men, women, white, black, rich, poor.
They came from some part of the globe.
They had some kind of life.
I see Sweet Uncle Joseph, who owns a farm.
He tenderly treats and raises his animals.
His traditional style, and laid-back attitude.
There's nothing in the wilds he wouldn't do.
I see Dearest Aunt Maria, the kindest soul.
She's a successful woman with a job.
In the face of danger, her strength prevails.
No business could step in her tracks.
I see Little Miss Rebecca, moody and sassy.
She takes what she wants, when she wants it.
Without asking for more. “That will be all!”
No one would interrupt her.
I see Good Old Harry, a devil at heart.
He's got a charm so endearing and bizarre.
Evil and mischievous, he doesn't hold back.
A man anyone would nack.
Who are these people?
What significance do they hold to me?
They were killed with a clatter.
But they were foreign. It really doesn't matter.
Those people whose spirits I won't know.
Those people whose souls are gone.
The merciless murder of 18.
And I can't name a single one.
18 lives that'll become naught.
18 legacies we'll never see.
18 seats that won't be filled.
18 families that mourn and wheeze.
That could have happened to my family.
That could have happened to my friends.
That could have happened to my colleagues.
It would be exactly the same.
But it didn't.
It didn't happen to me.
So I don't need to care.
I don't need to mourn or worry.
18 lives that could have changed many more.
18 lives that could have become famous.
18 lives that could have made contributions.
18 lives that could have saved the planet.
The world's population goes down by 18.
The number of saints goes down by 18.
Our fearless warrior count goes down by 18.
We know they died. That is all we will know.
We sigh, “Thank God it wasn't us!”
Because we don't have to worry.
We don't have to live in sorrow.
We don't want to live in sorrow.
But that's not just a headline.
That's not just text.
That's not just a statistic.
Those were 18 real people.
They're all dead.
They're all gone.
They do not exist.
They will never exist.
That could have happened to me.
What difference would that make?
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