hell is a gun in poetry

the devil’s emissaries
on our earth are the gun
once there were too many
of us running around here
the devil had his hands full
the devil couldn’t keep up
with all our petty things
so the devil made the gun

an instant-murder button
anyone could raise on up
anyone could press upon
deleting lives by dozens
without an undo function
on a whim and permanent
just kill

ruin lives
ruin whole families
ruin whole communities
on a person’s passing fancy
the gun is more than we can handle
the gun’s too tempting in our worst moments
the gun’s an existential answer
when we are too crazy hurt or weak
to resist the awful power that it wields

the gun is hell
the gun is hell on earth
the gun is hell in our hands
the gun is more than us people
we monkeys barely out of trees
could ever hope to sanely handle

the gun is hell on earth
and it makes a devil of you
and it makes of you a ruiner
and it makes of you the destroyer
and when you hold it in your hands
the devil smiles
he knows some day you will be too weak
he knows you will just want to feel strong
and you will kill
and you will ruin
and the suffering will rain down exponentially

the gun is hell on earth
the gun makes of you hell’s ambassador
no one should have them
no one should ever have them
we are not always strong enough
to know what we are doing
with something so permanent
and vile