You always wanted a bullet ,
A bullet to shoot down the ghosts of your past
And bleed meaning ,
From the darkness ,
Of the dreams you cast
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember;
Your past is already dead,
It’s the Eighth of September .
“A bullet’s too quick” ,
I hear you weep ,
“Plus gunpowder costs ,
While my dreams are cheap”
The modesty of ******,
Undisguised in that line
Lead me to propose,
Cheap country wine .
High on the eureka,
We walked into a bar ,
And asked for a pint of poison ,
Preserved in a rusty jar ,
But then ,
The Bartender asked , for age proof from you ,
Alas ,
One of us was sixteen , the other was two
coughs
Heartbroken,
We got drunk on our memories ,
While it was still free,
It might be the age of reason ,
But death still came , at a cost you see
We drank and drank,
Until the wordsmith in you ,
Bothered to remember
Your past is already dead,
After all ,It’s the Eighth of September.
“But i still want a bullet “
To my surprise you ask ,
“ To shoot down your poetry ,
And the lameness they mask”
Such are the dangers of having a friend
Who would not just follow ,
But guide you ,
To your very end.
Written for one of my best friends who also happens to be one of the best amateur poets i know. Recently things have been weird between us, so this to remind her of the better times.
