Silencer
A poem about one of the recurring problems in my writing.
Silencer
My fingers still grip this lead-loaded
Pistol, though I know the bullets
Won't fail to miss. I pull the trigger
Over and over again, but no one
Hears 'I live' in this. All that they
See are empty halves of the truth,
Those pieces of things they'll accept.
Each time I shoot, I silence the gun;
it whispers words I might regret.