His touch grips the revolver in my mind
and sets it off with a burst of color–
Drained to white
As pain replaces the adrenaline and leaves me
Wasted.
His touch grips the revolver in my mind
and sets it off with a burst of color–
Drained to white
As pain replaces the adrenaline and leaves me
Wasted.
A Poet's Pen 