THIS IS ONLY EMO POETRY AND NO MORE
walk into the room, turn on the light.
One minute I'm writing songs about utopian worlds
the next, I'm putting a gun to my head.
"what if I really did it this time?"
I smile, and a low laugh escapes from inside.
Thousands of images of people blowing their brains out flood into my mind's eye.
You're not supposed to do it now, you know.
I pull back the hammer, cock the gun.
Take it out of my mouth, press it hard into my temple.
Take my glasses off, set them beside me.
No not that side, you'll fall on them.
A thousand visons flower in lucid lushness
My parents awake to a sound they are barely aware of
a few moments later, it registers. They bolt upright in panic.
"what the hell was that?"
They search around the house for a few moments before they smell
the horrible smell
of blood
and gunsmoke.
It's too late.
"Mom would kill herself" I think.
A feeble attempt,
Hardly enough to dissuade. A deep sigh
that can only come from a very old question
that can never be answered
that can only come from a very old crime
that is left unpunished.
I relax my trigger finger, let the gun drop away from my head.
I stare at that hammer.
Put my thumb over it, pull the trigger.
Let the hammer slide gently into place.
There was no bullet in the chamber, even though there was a full clip
inside it.
You can't be serious.
The hammer bites my thumb halfway through, I instinctively cock the gun again.
Blood begins to trickle, redder than anything I've ever seen.
It was so hungry, it had to have a taste.
The Blood is not transparent, some gets on the black metal of the gun.
Somehow, it's even redder. I lick the gun clean.
Like a lioness cleans its cub.
Blood begins to drip down my hand, I am entranced by it.
There is some blood, and in the blink of an eye
there is more.
I want it to keep coming. I want blood everywhere.
I want to wallow in it. But I put the gun away.
The gun is beautiful. The blood, more beautiful
than even Lucifer.
The blood marks my hand.
It writes the words that my soul screams to me.
Words that I cannot understand.
One minute I'm writing songs about utopian worlds
the next, I'm putting a gun to my head.
"what if I really did it this time?"
I smile, and a low laugh escapes from inside.
Thousands of images of people blowing their brains out flood into my mind's eye.
You're not supposed to do it now, you know.
I pull back the hammer, cock the gun.
Take it out of my mouth, press it hard into my temple.
Take my glasses off, set them beside me.
No not that side, you'll fall on them.
A thousand visons flower in lucid lushness
My parents awake to a sound they are barely aware of
a few moments later, it registers. They bolt upright in panic.
"what the hell was that?"
They search around the house for a few moments before they smell
the horrible smell
of blood
and gunsmoke.
It's too late.
"Mom would kill herself" I think.
A feeble attempt,
Hardly enough to dissuade. A deep sigh
that can only come from a very old question
that can never be answered
that can only come from a very old crime
that is left unpunished.
I relax my trigger finger, let the gun drop away from my head.
I stare at that hammer.
Put my thumb over it, pull the trigger.
Let the hammer slide gently into place.
There was no bullet in the chamber, even though there was a full clip
inside it.
You can't be serious.
The hammer bites my thumb halfway through, I instinctively cock the gun again.
Blood begins to trickle, redder than anything I've ever seen.
It was so hungry, it had to have a taste.
The Blood is not transparent, some gets on the black metal of the gun.
Somehow, it's even redder. I lick the gun clean.
Like a lioness cleans its cub.
Blood begins to drip down my hand, I am entranced by it.
There is some blood, and in the blink of an eye
there is more.
I want it to keep coming. I want blood everywhere.
I want to wallow in it. But I put the gun away.
The gun is beautiful. The blood, more beautiful
than even Lucifer.
The blood marks my hand.
It writes the words that my soul screams to me.
Words that I cannot understand.
