A Poem: The Silver Gun

Every so often I get bored and write a poem. It isn’t a great poem and in no way will I ever compare what I wrote to Elliot or Keats. I just write to entertain myself. Maybe not the best way to entertain myself but if it gets the creative juices flowing, so be it. Before you jump to conclusions, I am not depressed nor am I looking to off myself. With that being said, enjoy!

Please don’t look at this poem as a reason to end your life. If you need someone to talk to, please call, 1-800-273-8255. They will help. Someone does care about you. Know that. People care.

The silver gun rests on my tongue,

It feels so right but tastes so wrong.

I feel my finger tremble as the trigger and him debate,

An argument of pasts regrets,

A future that awaits.

I stop to pause and think if this is how it ends,

To stop the pain and suffering,

And my life of just pretend.

A life without love to be showered with or to share,

I have nothing to offer you but this burden that I bear.

Don’t try to stop me,

And don’t feed me with your lies.

For every false you tell me,

another piece of me dies.

With all my hope lost,

And a pain that increases,

The trigger is pulled and my body goes cold,

Escaping a world of hatred and diseases.

Visit me if you must,

But don’t damn me for my choices.

You and the others brought me here,

With hatred in your voices.

My name and date is sealed with R.I.P.

Now etched in stone,

I’m forever alone,

A better world without me.

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I like food. I like the smell of cinnamon.

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