My Firing Range

Some may find it strange, how I built this firing range, it houses all the darkness and emotions that I feel

It’s closed to other guests because it’s where my conscience rests, I know in here there is no fear and everything is real

The structures made of glass so I can see through at my past, looking for a future I’ve been dreaming of for years

A well I dug right there, to clean the armor that I wear, the water, it anoints, it was made from all my tears

Pick a booth I’m ready and my hands are fine’ly steady, the targets are so heavy but through pain they can be hung

I think about her death and what world that I was left, but I fight through because of you no matter how hard I was stung

I breathe

I hang up all my pain, all the torment; the regret

Put them on a reel and have them ready to be set

My weapon is my pen and the ammo is this ink

Now I’m armed with all the thoughts that I am forced to always think

Taking aim I fire with these words then I aim higher as the targets on this wire start to crumble into dust

Now my art is honed, it is this range I built alone, that has set me free and given me the one thing that I lust


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