whenitalktomotherlisten

there are constantly two things in my head.

one is a song.

the other is a bullet being fed to me.

how does one make the choice between a song and a bullet without letting the not chosen go.

and don’t you know what happens when you let a bullet go.

a loose bullet.

a lost bullet.

i prefer most often and otherwise probably unknowingly to do the things i do not know how to do.

i seem to know very little about let-go bullets.

i choose the song every time so i can see where the steel can go.

the universe saves me.

again and again.

i am not let die.

i am not let bullet.

but i am let song.

and so i go hungry because the mouth is not fed.

the mouth is the chef of a song no one knows yet.

and don’t you know what happens when you let a song go.

a loose song.

a lost song.

the grass in my garden knows very well i have stamped notes of life melody on her blades with my feet.

so the theme song to the most hurtful episodes of life becomes a let-go song.

when i see green things die for the first time i write about a bullet instead.

and i write her trajectory.

my bullet goes where my song does.

i kill what my creation touches.

and i never set foot on the grass again.