A collection of dust sits on the trigger,

every now and again I wipe it clean.

But never do I ignite the firing pin.

As time passes, the shell will become brittle

and sometimes I wonder if the gunpowder was never there in the first place.

I’ve fired the gun before,

always with knees trembling and beads of sweat on my forehead.

Every once in awhile I hit the target,

most of the time I hit the sandy banks behind.

As notions pass through my skull the time is coming closer,

For me to hold my breathe and pull that trigger.



Disclaimer because I’m a paranoid nutcase: this is a metaphor about chasing my dreams. Not actually about shooting a gun.


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