Guns detest their existence,
feeling no true aim in life.
They wish to be castrated
of their trigger pendulant,
which goads their self-loathing slant.
They want to come completely out of their casing ,
which would alleviate the bloating from bullets -
the true culprits of the kill.

Guns would like to be immune from ammunition
and make amends to all those
who have succumbed to their powerful ignition
with conveying contrition -

"To the all-around good guy
blown away in the drive-by,
to the innocent toddler
gone way too soon, I'm sorry"

Guns grieve profound misery,
not only for the perished,
but for the predicament
which they themselves have to face -
dealing with a barrage of discrimination
and a blaring round of carping criticism.
Guns feel increasingly like
the scorned scapegoats of a grossly violent culture.

Guns are not weapons by choice.
They do not seek out to be objects glorified
on the front covers of Shooting Illustrated,
nor to be the postertoys
of the NRA and the like; nor do they like
to be the main attractions
at the "gun-ho" conventions
where pellet zealots revel of their invention.

Guns hate being called "specials"
They are rather stupefied
by this insinuation.
It startles them to a stifle.
Their presence is quite a trifle
but they wish not to be played,
nor be treated like trophies
in the armoire displayed.

What's the deal 'bout gun control?
Guns don't need any control.
Why, they don't have anger issues!
On the contrary, they are quite passive.
Or - it can be argued that
guns do not have control-
control of their destiny.
They are ruled by tyranny.

Guns plea for disarmament -
yet not for the sake of ballistic politics
from the crossfire battle lines-
but to just be left alone
and live their lives in lament-
If only they could last in an undisturbed lull
instead of being triggered -
set off with a simple pull!

Loaded arms do not feel safe
in the clutch of a hand ; they become
hot and smothered.
Although bothered, they still cling
firmly to hopes of cease-fire.
What a sobering quagmire!
Arms abhor being used as a means to an end -
an end so hard to bear out , so much to comprehend.

Oh, how firearms
yearn to transcend their being,
fleeing from a bloody fate to utopia…
Just a thousand years of peace
would be a wondrous godsend!
Just imagine armistice with a fighting chance -
Bloody Circumstance to End!
No Warfare! The Commencement of a New Romance!

These bulletins would have been
dispatched all over the world
if their maker had foreseen -
but, instead, guns are elevated and discharged.
…Alas, this wishful thinking
of their armistice attained
is shot up like shattered glass
with each blast of the bullet at close range
Crash! Boom! Bang!

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