Gun Poem by Kennedy Huston
Gun
The gun is slick with blood
22. black, easy
one bullet, one life, one shot
heaving in my cold hand
my ears still ring
the bullet is lodged in my chest
stuck in between broken ribs
pulsing as my body tried to fight it
the white sheets turning red
slick
sticky
staining my cloths
breathing shallow and fast
waiting to die
this time
no one can save me
Friday, October 30, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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4/23/2024 8:26:12 AM # 1.0.0.1119
