The Journey

I buy bullets for Russian roulette,
My mind’s burning like a cigarette,
My persona’s addicted to the aroma and the fear,
I feel a sense of security growing near.

I think the outcome of my choices are affected by my desires,
And the only thing standing between them and me is the smoke and fires.
Put it out, put out, go to the edge. Take chances and risks.
This is your last chance. You better go all the way, even if you miss.

I think this nervous tick of mine is resurfacing.
It makes tweaks, it rearranges, and is repurposing.
It isn’t the old head bob or thought-burner.
It’s the tendency to contemplate on violence and murder.

Help me, hold my hand and take me by baby steps.
Treat me like your child, quiet and no deeper than skin depth.
Please, fill out my one-dimensional ideas, my fragile creativity.
If I am a lamb, you are the nativity.

God hates it when I cough. Damn that cigarette.
I still find myself awake in cold sweat.
The dreams keep coming back, an output for emotions.
I hide them when I am awake, a way to feign devotion.

This time, you’re coming with me.
I don’t need any reason except to merely be.
I grip your hand so tight it’ll break your intimacy.
You’ll be opened up and given all the chances you can handle to break your resiliency.

We’re gonna get through this, whether you’re dead in the end or not.
I’ll carry your frail corpse even if it starts to rot.
I’ve smelled worse, I can handle your death better than you can.
I am the very essence of intimidation. I’m every inch a fucking man.