147 Kenyan Victims

One hundred and forty seven
A number foreign but not too foreign from what I know
It’s uncomfortably familiar
A number I can’t seem to quite understand but one I can understand completely
It’s a number I know very well
And don’t know at all
Its a number that screams politics instead of humanity
A number that lacks the attention of the masses
One hundred and forty seven
Kenyans I see as my brothers and sisters
Just as I do my from my Syrian ties
Parking disputes and choke holds
They all hurt just the same
All this blood from my family tree
It continues to drip into never ending puddles
And graveyards that always find more room for more bodies
One hundred and forty seven
It’s a number a mother will never forget
Because one body is enough ache
She will mourn the last hug she never felt
The last kiss she cannot remember
And the last smile she never cherished
A mothers muffled screams will drown the sound of gunshots
One hundred and forty seven
Lives lost
With bullets that lacked fear
These bullets, they did not fear
They did not fear, because they did not know the lives taken
Because bullets do not fear God
So these killers, they hide behind their machines and shame
They lack humanity and humility
You see, bullets, they kill in the digits
Bullets do not know stories
They do not know the simple beauties of victims lives
They do not know the goodbyes that linger on unspoken lips
They are blind
Yet they see color
They know no love
Just lingering evil 
They learned destruction before learning acceptance
One hundred and forty seven
They are stories that remain untold
Bodies that never grew tall
Lives that did not see their fate
Souls pried from humanity’s fingers
But souls that will never be forgotten 
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