Tick, Tock (Official Edition)
Tick, Tock
Fear is the source of evil,
like our bodies are ready to ascend,
like our lives aren’t worth amends,
because what it means to be American
is to feed on fear, that the end is near,
to pack up our resources and pick up the pieces
of a broken nation.
But our relations don’t have to be so polarizing,
glamorizing the scopes of weapons of mass destruction,
roadblocks and sectioning walls of obstruction.
The America we see is one filled with holes,
no matter how many people run to the polls,
because we’re wrapped in the Red versus Blue
that our media and articles skew further from the truth,
that we’re stuck in booths of disaster rhetoric,
reverberating ideas of a split
reminiscent of Confederate.
Hear ye, hear ye, to the halls of Congress,
where we’re worried about TikTok,
while the clocks to our lives—
tick—
2nd period the alarm screams:
“There is an active shooter in the building.”
Tock.
The school of thought,
turning into a Congress of haughty ideals
while the holes in lockers make the halls reverberate.
Tick.
Our time bomb of damnation,
creation of death,
the depths of the steps to congressional, judicial repeal
seem steep,
while members question, conspire, claim
that the hooks of vice and the barrels of assault were faked,
that the Sandy-skinned aliens are to blame,
that immigration is the shame.
Claim that your future will take us back—
but take us back to the 3rd Reich,
where we burn knowledge,
covering the pipe of truth with duct tape.
Where we make issue of those who are invading this great country.
Tock.
The clock stops as it passes October 7th and November 9th,
broken glasses, and a genocidal spark,
as innocent souls frolic in the parks,
of the parts of a world that are not yet broken,
as the holes catch up
to ensure that their future is never spoken.
I see children running,
blood gushing,
teachers shushing
and telling students to lay low in a room of black,
stacked together to protect from attack.
I see officers reluctant.
I see walls covered in our future.
I see Congress’s halls filled.
I see the streets of the capital filled
with seas of red—
while oceans of red are lost in each school hallway.
Always ready to move on and get over it,
the blood was lost, but we have nothing to show for it.
We have the Nation in our hands—
hands on rifles,
associating our guns with protection,
while teachers use fire extinguishers
with blooded complexion.
Sections of bodies and candles
while we march for our lives.
Tick.
The clock strikes midnight.
It’s only okay if we lived right,
protecting undeveloped lives,
while overlooking the piles of student bodies
where violence derives.
While Congress is worried about Planned Parenthood,
the communities’ plan of parenthood is crushed
as they have to rush to the schools
to find that their children’s bodies were turned into dust.
But saving the unborn is a must,
while we blindly follow, giving up our trust.
The lockers have holes in them.
The doors of the gym have holes in them.
While you rush to bandage your grazed ear,
children fear for their lives
every time an AR-15 is near.
But you could never care,
because all you care about is you,
no clue what it means
to walk a mile in my shoes.
Tock.
While you hold the biggest rallies,
you only have concepts of a plan
to help us withstand the terror domestic.
It isn’t immigrants inciting political violence,
filling hallways with blood,
and marching the streets saying,
“You will not replace us.”
The hate you placed
will leave us gone without a trace,
because while you use mace
to keep us silent,
we’ll continue to try
to calm down the violence
at the hands of the gun.
Tick.
As the bell schedule runs,
we have to run for our lives
before he empties the drum.
And after,
we’ll get together and hum,
and honor those who didn’t have a gun,
or the time to realize
that they were running out of theirs.
You let the lobby pull your strings, Mr. Nutcracker,
while we have to string together
back the stitching of our community
after the common attack.
While you lack action,
staying with your faction
of a party of hypocrites.
A Democrite.
A Rebloodican.
While students stand in parking lots,
staring at the reflection
of election
of the right to bear arms,
even if they harm
and cause the people’s alarms to sound.
Tock.
The time is soon running out.
While you tweet out about nonsense,
we cry for the pretense of hate,
saying that this country is great,
while its people
have to be ready to accept their fate
at the barrel of a rifle.
Tick.
No matter how many times you pray,
our voice goes astray.
Tock.
We run in flocks—
the March of Our Lives.
Tick.
While you enact laws of ethnic ban,
blame the trans.
Tock.
But our transgressions
are when we lift our voice to call out.
Tick.
Confession of a country doomed for recession
is that our lesson
might be cut short
by the body of a weapon
that leaves an impression on bodies.
Tock.
Holes in the chest.
Brains with permanent distress.
Impressing the image of hate
and flurries of red
into the minds of hind.
Always in the back of our mind—
Tock.
We are running out of time.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
12 children dead each day.
Tock.
More than 338,000 scarred.
Tick.
2032 school shootings since Columbine.
Tock.
While you refer to women as concubines.
Tick.
493 dead in schools.
Tock.
We cry for help and are called fools.
Tick.
How many more bullets
can the walls withstand?
Tock.
The clock is running out.
Tick.
Please consider, before we run out of time.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
copyright © micah hill 2025
