Bullets But No Gun

Life and love about my head, a harrowing calamity calling me
To a destination where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and I
Am not scared at all of the happenings, a page written in a book
Lost long ago, and it makes no sense to drag my face about the past.
You are a synonym for Sunday afternoons, family get-togethers and cookies and milk
You talk to me slowly subduing my angst and smoothing my mood to silk
Let me break bad and tear huge holes in the quilt
Let me be sad about the all the hopes you just killed
Yet I can’t be mad, it’s the world that I have built
Pulling me in, bleeding me thin, wasting my wants like water being spilled.

Maybe I could be the free one, roaming and shuffling these roads alone
The sole bastard too self-aware to regard the musings of the trite and dogged,
Dancing and twirling like a retarded danseur, my shoes too little and my attitude strange
Spitting pomegranate seeds into the wind to remind myself that it all comes back in my face, eventually
I am the conundrum of the multi-faceted, a Jack-of-All-Trades; Master of None?
I am the humble diversion of the wary traveler, where the hell should I run?
You can get ghost and leave me in the dusted sun.
You can play host to an assortment of friends swallowing rum.
And you can’t seem to see that this is just all too fun.
Turning you away, asking you to stay: Likely I have the bullets but no gun.