Roulette
He shoot...I shoot...
Shooting away...
Shootin away my issues...
I find my quivering finger gripped firmly around the trigger,
shooting desperately in a erratic cavort.
A stable abberation overwhelms me as embers expelled from persuader in a pure madness in motion.
The chalky gunpowder taste bewilders my senses like phermones for my vexation,
but no man kills over personal annoyance.
Why am I shooting?
Why is he shooting?
Solving irrationality with irrationality is an unfortunate conformity today,
and if I don't get with the program,
then I perish.
A flashback strikes my already burdened mind,
between fired shots, a jukebox playing We're Gonna Make It takes hold of my ear.
That song, I formally dance to, how ironic
Empty casing hit the floor in such a lenitive way, mesmerizing me like a last drum candence.
Teeth clenched as well as my will, Im struck, bullet throws my shoulder out of balance I'll worry about torment later, my arrogance keeps me alive.
I peer past the lunacy and chaotic fighting and see her, arms crossed and a smirk that say rancor.
Her...
I call Her beacuse I never knew her real name, nor the truth.
I ceased to talk to Her, tired of the lies, and now heres my payback,
Love a scarlet woman and live a lifetime of pain,
Love and leave a treacherous woman, and pain comes just the same.
I fire again and a bullet rips pass my atagonist knocking him to the ground. A man with a gun bigger than his ego, laid sprawled across the floor. I creep unto him gun drawn to inspect the kill
His breath reeked of alcohol from my standing postion, if I didn't kill him, a 120 proof will.
He's not breathing. A life I wish I hadn't took.
Gun drawn with one round in it, I scan the room for her, gone like yesterday.
So silent now, police cars can be heard miles away, or at least it seems that way,
This guy dead on the floor, and that girl vaninshed quicker than nightfall, Im alone again.
Alone until the authorities get here, but who'll believe me? I place the pistola down on the bar next to my unfinished drink, I paid for it might as well finish it. I'll drink my drink, and listen to Little Milton on the juke box, but pretty soon I won't be able to hear him. I welcome another sip as approaching sirens drown my song, and shake my head to myself,
All of this,
All of this for a girl, to whom name,
I don't even know.
"We gonna make it, I know we will," You right Milton.
Poetry by wolfthepoet
Read 850 times
Written on 2006-09-24 at 23:10
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