No I, Don't Have A Gun

***So, I'm back. Well, my poems are at least. I'm at my aunt's, and she has Internet. I'm posting what I can. The last couple months I haven't even been able to write. Kind of went through a major emotional breakdown, and my life started falling apart. At least, now, I've got something to write about. Anyways, I hope you enjoy. It's been a while since I've written poetry, and my style seems to have changed. I hope it's okay...***

This is a sick joke,
a hallucination of angry smoke.
But I've coughed up cigarettes,
already lit with my regrets,
there's a torrent of words I can't forget.
And maybe I'm hallucinating,
cause I'm here waiting,
to play Russian roulette with myself.

The chances are low,
that I will survive,
just watch for that crying crow,
and how it whispers behind my back.
So what if my eyes are black,
it's not like perfection is on the way,
or is that the essence you'd like me to portray?

Don't worry,
even though things are all blurry,
I don't even have a gun.
A depression isn't much fun,
like the stab wound in my heart,
that just hurt like fu__cking Hell.
And that bruise will swell,
it's the painful fragrance that I smell,
covering the walls of my insanity cell.

I was bathing in lithium,
but greed is a sin,
and I thought that everyone would want some.
And while playing the questions on my violin,
I felt the poison working within,
and it began to drip down my skin.

There was red,
and I knew that I had bled,
but it didn't feel wrong.
Like midnight's lullaby song,
pouring from virgin lips,
from which I was mesmerized by an eclipse.

But I swear I don't have a gun,
no I don't have it anymore.
You could tell when I hit the floor,
what I had begun.
Now I feel nude,
and now I'm metaphorically screwed,
because I threw away my gun,
away into tomorrow morning's sun.

No I don't have a gun....I swear I, don't have a gun....no I don't have a gun...