Ammunition

I bury the potential inside because of the anxiety I feel when I strive. If life is a game, I have lost every roll of the dice. These days are cold like ice. I write about pain often; I refuse to leave you alone until your wings expand, ascend, and leave my side. These words are my weapon, like a knife… my only form of attack. I lay down every sentence like a trap, ready to react, waiting to capture every moment until the thorn in my side is gone. I collect these letters like ammunition, ready to fire enough rounds until the sound of your voice never returns.

Matt Brown | Evolving Poet