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Homie Dead

Dimiter Zafirov

Homie dead,

feeling dread, overflowing my mind.

Like water rushing out a dam, broken, open wide.


What is it that I see?

Red cloth, and red eyes.


Calling and begging,

Screaming out,

asking our god why.


Those screams that we all heard,

Crying out tortured notes,

Fear permeating inside of us,

Embedding in little motes.


A young man's gaze, now motionless, 

a look, peaceful and benign. 

Met by laughing, passing, maliced, menacing hand-made signs.


Lying on the pavement,

of the Sunshine State,

Yet, nevermore to see the sun.

Left now

to his dismal fate,

At the unforgiving end of the gun.


Blackened blood, shaded alike, 

the asphalt it rests upon.

Old transgressions,

“teaching lessons,”

crafting brand new wrongs.


Bloodied blocks

And polished glocks,

continued dilemmas go on.

Mothers’ sons, with their death dates

Etched on tips of guns.


The pop of pistols blasting our mind, chiseled into our heads.

A machine so utterly merciless, filling his chest with leads.

God save his soul, and let us go, and give us no more dread,

About if today, is the day,

We find another homie dead.

Dimiter Zafirov is sixteen years old and attends Manatee School for the Arts. “Homie Dead” won second place in the Manatee Libraries and 805 Teen Poetry Contest.

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