This gun is my friend, as you well see I kiss the end, of what is you and of me…..
It sits there like some offensive reminder ….. of exit door
But courage it takes
So I take that picture then I quietly think…..
If I could ever get out from under the weight of this garbage
Maybe then I’d let the combustion out…
The steam roll off this sweltering pile of debri which is my life
Just my reflection in
The mirror is a contradiction
There is some sort of power in the weight of my words, it’s like it spills forth from a spring of knowledge of some unknown source from my lips these thoughts drip~my Catherism speaks to me, I dare not protest
I realiz I could be like the rest however~
These words are a strange comfort to me, they will be waiting for me long after everyone else is gone.. They are solidly spoken.. Insight in times that are baffling yet enlightening~ and I kiss the tip of my gun all is real, not for fun~