He was the man who ran with bullets.
Beside him, behind him.
He ran with them for the rush they caused.
Adrenaline pulsing through his limbs with every beat of his ice cold heart.
He felt alive. For once.
But those bullets he so loved, those he ran with for years would be his end.
But not how everyone assumed.
The bullets that ran behind him never caught his spine.
Those that ran beside him never caused him to fall through betrayal.
No.
It was the gun he chose to love that killed him.
It was the gun he would give up all his running for.
It was this gun, that would sit between his lips and give him one last bullet to run with.
YOU ARE READING
Poems From My Mostly Dark Places
PoetryThis is just a collection of things I jot down while I'm in a dark place. Not all of them will be dark, but most will be. That's generally when I'm creating at my best. A lot of them won't be very long either, I tend to get stuff out in just a few w...
