i never write about the explosions.  i don't write about the wishes for ricochet.  

they're like demons- the thoughts.  they cling to my chest and press down on my skull cap, like animated gargoyles.  clean, hopeful inspirations seldom escape their barrier.  they surround my potential like a mote.  a bubble of light is created in me and the closest it seems to come to creation is a single breath as it's being crushed into a gnashing jaw or finely pointed talon.  i feel suffocated by their existence.  they suck my life force like incessant vampires.  my neck belongs only to them.

i dream of gun blast.  i fantasize... it's sometimes my only escape... the scenario of looking down the barrel of a gun.  being held up or snuck upon.  threatened with bullets.  my insubordination bringing my demise.  my face fearless into the eye of the cannon.  and the blast that delivers me.  that finally kills the (literal) suckers.  i feel so hopelessly, utterly hopelessly crippled.  like i'm comprised of soap foam.  of smoke.  easy to be sucked and masticated.  sleepy, pressed, hideous and deplorable.

leave bugs.  please, please leave.