This Gun

This small lump of cold carbonised iron,
And all it's alloys,
Is no ally
To girls
Or boys,

 

It is no friend,
It does not employ,
Social graces,
Nor a smile of joy,

 

It's small pursed mouth,
Remains unmoved,
Whatever comes,
Or passes through,

 

It is indifferent
And cold to you,
It does not care,
Who you are,
Or what you do,

 

It does not care,
About the colour of your skin,
An excess or lack,
Of melanin,

 

It asks no questions,
Of political belief,
No distinction between,
Saint and Thief,

 

It does not discriminate,
Between two religions,
Not a jot,
No, not a smidgeon,

It's features remain blank,
If you ask it what,
You do for a living,
Give it your best shot,

 

It is not swayed,
By the arguments,
Of controls or rights,
The squeals and grunts,

 

Protest is lost,
Get a grip on it,
A gun does not,
Give a shit,

 

A gun will come
Between me and you,
It does not care,
For the why or who?

 

It doesn't care,
Who pulls the trigger
Who is smaller,
Who is bigger,

 

It doesn't mind
On which side you end,
The trigger or,
The business end,

 

This Gun is none,
No respecter of persons
No expresser of preference,
It can't know for certain,

 

This gun does not have
A sense of fun,
It feels no exhilaration,
To see you run,

 

This piece, this strap,
This moulded steel,
It is not angry,
It does not feel,

It does not empower,
Or say what to do,
It leaves those things,
Entirely up to you,

 

It cares not that,
Hot bullets of lead,
Tear through flesh,
Kill children in bed,

 

Make widows, and orphans,
And murderers the same,
It feels not pity,
It knows no shame,

 

It is unresponsive,
When four shots are fired,
Though windows, to cars,
And the driver's expired,

 

It has not noted,
That this was a routine stop,
Nor the black driver,
Or the white cop.

 

His Girlfriend begs Jesus,
But this seems one resurrection,
Too far for,
The Good Lord's attention,

 

(There will be insurrection)

 

It does not weep,
Over pools of blood,
Of Snipers fruit,
Or the Crimson flood.

 

It does not mourn,
For the five police killed there,
It doesn't hear their cries,
And it still doesn't care,

 

No we cannot blame the Guns,
We can only blame Humans,

 

This Gun is mean,
This Gun is cold,
But no meaner or colder,
Than the one that holds,
This Gun is only doing,
What it's been told,

 

No we cannot blame the guns,
We can only blame humans.

 

 

(This is not a pro gun poem in any way. My feelings are quite the opposite. I just wanted to highlight that human nature is behind the problem with guns and that the darker elements of our nature  combined with such a killing machine produces incidents like the ones that inspired this poem)