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This gun has no bullet's,

No chambers still,

No long pointing barrel,

No aim to kill.



But still, it is lethal fatal deadly.



There's no finger on a trigger,

No hammer cocked back--

Yet it anhilates in savage attack.



It mows down loved ones,

It keeps friends at bay,

I can't get rid of it,

It won't go away.



Yet it won't kill me...

The way it does them.

It goes before me and after me,

And lies with me in bed.



I'm a huge target,

But it will never vex,

Me in the crosshairs...in the scope of it's sight.





WHY?





Because "I" am the gun.

It is the disease from my brain through my mouth FLUNG.



Like ninja stars to the throat...

    Of relationships,

    Of my family and friends,

And a curse upon all those who desire to be a part



OF MY LIFE...OF MY WORLD...TO RETREAT IN MY MANIC HIGHS.



They will fall like soldiers in battle,

As they dance under the glow-

Of that shooting star moment,

When I am afire,

Radiating my wit, my intellect, my light.



But I am the only one standing there-

In the cemetary of my mind.

When this gun kills another aquaintance or friend.



AND ALL IS BLACK AGAIN...

AND AGAIN I'M ALONE IN THE VAST DARKNESS.