Each sunrise hands my heart a loaded gun.
Each sunset counts the bullets that are left.
I lose the day if I shoot even one.
I have to hold my fire, or I’m effed.
But that hot trigger strokes each angry kink
In my self-centered soul. It calls me “Stud!”
It tells me I should rage instead of think
And meet imaginary slights with blood.
Lashing out is so easy, isn’t it?
Biting like dogs; clawing like feral cats.
But if I would be human, I must pit
Restraint against revenge, lay down my gats,
And heal the hurt my hatred is born of,
And take a bullet in the name of love.
Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells