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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Stories Words for the People Poetry Pop
Wednesday, 04 May 2011 18:25

Pop

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Pop.

It sounded fake.

Pop pop.

It wasn't though,

and so like two great piles of leaves caught in two rakes,

the crowd spilt.

Desperate attempts to save their life, or hers or his.

Some just fell on the floor and held their hands over their heads.

Those ones didn't live.

 

Pop.

I just watched them as each consecutive pop

rang through my body, until settling in my head.

Pop pop.

I was a tuning fork for the mayhem,

each new pop caused a beautiful harmonic

that ended in bloodshed.

 

Pop.

I wasn't sure what do to.

Pop pop.

So I kept walking.

The room was nearly empty by then.

All I could hear was crying,

and the click clack of my shoes.

 

I stopped, turned, looked over my mess,

and then yelled:

 

"Adieu!"

Pop.




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Michael David Johnson

Michael was born and raised in Sacramento, and is currently studying art in southern California. You can find more of his work online at HumphreyTheMonster.com.

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