It was Christmas Day and a horrible incident was about to unfold.
When it happened, I was only four years old.
It was Mom's last Christmas, she'd never have another.
I found my dad's gun and I shot and killed my mother.
When I found my dad's gun, I thought it was a toy.
I pulled the trigger and I learned that guns destroy.
When I shot my mother in the chest, she fell to the floor.
One bullet ended it all, she wasn't my mother anymore.
Dad should've kept his gun out of the reach of children but he did not.
I have severe emotional problems, because of me, my mother was shot.
As my mom was lowered into the ground, it brought tears to my eyes.
She died because of a mistake and her death was sure to traumatize.
I wouldn't have pulled the trigger if I had known the gun would kill.
Because of that horrible incident, I hate Christmas and I always will.
Some people tell me that Christmas is a day that I shouldn't hate.
But I lost my mother and Christmas isn't a day that I can celebrate.
My story is a tragedy that truly chills to the bone.
If you're a child and you find a gun, leave it alone.

(This is a fictional poem but parents really should keep their guns out of the reach of their children)