Have you ever thought about a bullet’s life? What would a bullet say about that? This poem is all about that and you will be shocked what a bullet may think all the way from its manufacturing to its final destination.

Audio Podcast

A Bullet’s Life


Since they invented me, they have been using me to show off their power and solve problems they created. Believe me when I say I had nothing to do with all those monsters they created. After all, I’m just a tiny piece of metal that has yet to figure out the reason for its own existence. However, I have learned that I am more powerful than the most powerful nuclear bomb. Oh yes, I have killed way more than she ever did. I know they call her the mother of all bombs, but that mother is left barren and left to waste and slowly decay, but I, I am forever so fertile. She may be like the Roman eagle whose sight was at times more powerful than all the swords that broke hordes of those less fortunate to bear the divine right of the Roman’s many gods to rule or simply live a life their own, but this is not about her; she will never steal my thunder. Today is all about me. I was born happy as I embarked on a journey that might not be as spectacular as the Odyssey, but what I have learned may be more important, so bear with me. As little as I might be, I have gained a lot of your worldly wisdom. I have learned about you more than you know about yourself. I have been closer to you than your thoughts. I have been there for you all the way, and I am here to stay.


I was born yesterday
in a hustle-free factory,
a man was smoking carelessly
on top of the gunpowder
around the cases and me;
fitting me inside is never an easy task
yet not anymore is it done manually,
nor does anyone tend to save on me—
I am abundant as the sun,
Yet at night I shine, mostly.

I was loaded in a box,
I looked around in shock
I thought I was unique—
thousands of brothers and sisters
lining up to be loaded and wasted
for fear or joy, we’re viciously shot.

Legend has it, a bullet tells the truth,
a bullet that knows the righteous way to go,
a bullet controlling its primer;
the road was long and stories were longer,
none will ever see a son,
how could they ever claim a father?
Where do these stories come from?
Wait, the truck has stopped;
in the distance you hear a familiar sound—
our kin being wasted, again shot,
yet the sound alone was not enough
to tell whether it was to kill or just for fun.

I was in such a big company,
now in a magazine, it feels too tight—
loaded not with so many—
brothers in arms, are we not?
for we will probably spill the same blood;
alas, in vain, like these poor soldiers,
some of us are sent to die
some are sent to kill—
we’re all younger than those,
but sometimes, it feels they’re younger still—
lasting for a couple of seconds
shorter than memory
on the battlefield, but we stay
in the memory of those who mourn the ones we kill.
Who’s more memorable now,
a soldier or a bullet?
every soldier gets one
today or in fifty years,
in the head, in the heart or in memory—
oh! there are a lot;
every successful shot
that killed a friend
has become a legend.

Now for wrath, stand fast brothers—
enemies are whizzing everywhere;
prepare to die, to kill and conquer—
I had the best view in the house,
the first sneaky shot to come out—
my man was moving slowly
trying to get a vantage point
but wait, isn’t that a child
I can see from the barrel?
I held myself tight;
click, I stood still withstanding the urge to fly,
too late for my pal,
I gave him away—
he did receive us from the other side
so many there was no one left of us
for any special memory;
oh yes, those were also brothers—
like these fools we were all the same.

We stayed for a whole day
in the loaded magazine,
all intact, except for me—
I thought I was saving someone,
but I killed a friend;
take me back to a factory
before I harden like life,
I wish I’d been molded into something else,
but wait, here comes the very boy I tried to save
salvaging and desecrating bodies,
why did you shoot young man?
my friend is already dead
stop wasting my brothers—
I had to take revenge,
it was time;
I jammed and now I can simply unjam,
but wait for the perfect angle,
here I go, I am inside his little skull—
It’s dark in here,
am I dead?
the boy’s about to be,
well, let me look
for I may see
a trace of cocaine—
not too young to take it now that I have been in his head—
a memory flashes here and there,
his family on a wall lined up and killed
like lambs no one did understand
what their blood for, was spilled,
but that was a long time,
I doubt the boy still recollects;
Oh no! I saw what I came here in for, at last—
the reason behind my being and all,
I saw the purpose in his little mind—
like all these soldiers who died in vain,
and all my brothers who died in shame,
the boy’s mind was but thinking of one thing—
like all of us, the boy was only playing a game.

<a href="" target="_self">Danny Ballan</a>

Danny Ballan


Danny is a podcaster, teacher, and writer. He worked in educational technology for over a decade. He creates daily podcasts, online courses, educational videos, educational games, and he also writes poetry, novels and music.

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