I wonder how it feels in the hand,

Cold metal,


The gatekeeper of my early departure,

I spin the cylinder over and over,


Is almost the right word,

The small metal circle makes the tiniest,

Of imprints,

Upon my forehead,

The trigger is immovable,

Like a boulder,

My hands prespire,

My finger trembles against the weight,


All of the things I could have done,

If I had known more about the world that awaited me,

If I could have called my younger self,

and tell him how naive we were,

How I let us down,


Which is worse,

To live with a sense of injustice,

Or to realize that your misfortune,

Is justice after all.

The world does not need our approval,

To tell us who we really are.

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Simple Thoughts

"No excuse, 

but the metal has rusted. 

An unkept armory. 

Barrels with red, 


triggers peppered orange. 

Springs stuck, 

pins, unmoving. 

Bores obstructed. 


The whole weapon set


to the trained eye. 



a gun is still a gun, 

the potential it has

to kill, 

ever present. 


Rusty or not, 

it is still recognizable, 

months of no use

not enough to erase


the sizable impression

of the shape, 

the indication

of the handgun, long gun. 


The task looming, 


keys in hand, 




the cages, 

duty tumblers turning, 

locks coming free. 


So long, 

had it beem

since maintenance

had been laid


where it belong. 

The familiar metal

began to fill hands, 

twist, turn,


rifles broke down, 

pistols slid apart. 

Rusty was the



as were the firemans, 

but both began 

to be broken



Rag, brush, 

break-away sprayed, 

assemblies oiled.

Pieces began to click, 


operate smoothly, 

unlike language, 

where lack of use

means disappearance, 


past tense

isn't the demise

of functionality of things,

like bike riding. 


or an armory. 


The Armorer will be busy,

it may take some time.

But he will pass inspection. 


With work, 

with determination, 


and time. 


It takes time

for things to rust. 


It takes time

to fix such a lack of use. 


The best solution

isn't busting rust, 

but daily use, 


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Time to write a book...


The iron-made pistol doesn’t know,

Who to hit, who to let go!

To hit the target it is born,

It earns both appreciation and scorn.


A pistol saves life and snatches one too,

It is wild and arrogant so,

Just like the ferocious tiger,

Carnage is its solemn desire.


If we need to keep pistols or not,


It is just another grave thought!

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