Your eyes, your concrete eyes.
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Cross crisscross my path...
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Walking in circular patterns.
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Shoe shine your ammo, polish your metal.
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I need not your wicked weapons.
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My war is not with someone like you.
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A string of blood that is not my own strings between
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a sword and my heart.
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So much so that it makes its way through my throat giving me thought to speak.
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This becomes my pistol.
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This becomes my dagger.
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This becomes your future.
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Unseen war.
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Your weapons are useless.
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Drop the gun.
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Golden gun.
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Like bringing a knife to a gun fight.
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-----------------
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Creating Something Out Of Nothing, Only To Destroy It
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| Norma Jean |
