Looking down the barrel
Of a young adult *** life
Peril is apparent
As I spend another lone night.
Dodging gunshots,
And other times, looking for shooters.
Searching for the right moment
To escape this life of a loser.
That I might get shot one day
Is a topic of which I fantasize.
But how come I’m obsessed with this,
Yet I possess a special pride
For restricting what I have inside
And choosing to hide it away?
Make sense of this I’ve tried and tried
And it all depends on the day
Because in one hour,
I’m so glad I’m independent
And then later on,
I’ll be searching for a weapon
To come fire it’s ammunition
Of lust upon my rosy face.
It’s so built up, it’s the first time,
I’ll always know the time and place.
It’s so sought after yet so feared,
And in the end, contrarily,
I’ll just say, “is that all there is?”
And go on my solo merry way.
I’ll always see another day
And have my emotion-fueled goals.
Sensations are so stimulating,
Yet they’re so far beyond control.
So as I stare down this supposed barrel,
Defying stats by not yet being shot,
I question myself and my appearal,
And wonder to change what I've got.
Once I’m wounded forever more,
Will I love what’s new and lament what’s killed?
These sensations, I know what they’re for.
It’s nothing, I maintain with my will.
All the sensation, all this ammo,
That may or may not taint my breast,
It’s all abiotic, it’s all arbitrary,
And all it offers is a test!
Will I obsess over a barrel,
Or any other form of fire,
When what matters infinitely more
Is who is there and whose it’s guider?
Alas, it’s like a fancy food
Of which I’ll never have a taste.
For although I may one day taste this barrel,
In my heart, there’s not a place.
The trigger-puller will certainly matter,
As will any who shoot at me.
I love people, not acts or stimuli.
From fear of this barrel, I am free.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
Looking down the barrel
Of a young adult *** life
Peril is apparent
As I spend another lone night.
Dodging gunshots,
And other times, looking for shooters.
Searching for the right moment
To escape this life of a loser.
That I might get shot one day
Is a topic of which I fantasize.
But how come I’m obsessed with this,
Yet I possess a special pride
For restricting what I have inside
And choosing to hide it away?
Make sense of this I’ve tried and tried
And it all depends on the day
Because in one hour,
I’m so glad I’m independent
And then later on,
I’ll be searching for a weapon
To come fire it’s ammunition
Of lust upon my rosy face.
It’s so built up, it’s the first time,
I’ll always know the time and place.
It’s so sought after yet so feared,
And in the end, contrarily,
I’ll just say, “is that all there is?”
And go on my solo merry way.
I’ll always see another day
And have my emotion-fueled goals.
Sensations are so stimulating,
Yet they’re so far beyond control.
So as I stare down this supposed barrel,
Defying stats by not yet being shot,
I question myself and my appearal,
And wonder to change what I've got.
Once I’m wounded forever more,
Will I love what’s new and lament what’s killed?
These sensations, I know what they’re for.
It’s nothing, I maintain with my will.
All the sensation, all this ammo,
That may or may not taint my breast,
It’s all abiotic, it’s all arbitrary,
And all it offers is a test!
Will I obsess over a barrel,
Or any other form of fire,
When what matters infinitely more
Is who is there and whose it’s guider?
Alas, it’s like a fancy food
Of which I’ll never have a taste.
For although I may one day taste this barrel,
In my heart, there’s not a place.
The trigger-puller will certainly matter,
As will any who shoot at me.
I love people, not acts or stimuli.
From fear of this barrel, I am free.