Gunned, Stoned

A gun to the foot—foolish, really,
but kids must play, must burn in their ignorance.
What’s a little pain if it’s self-inflicted?
A scar to show off, a joke to tell,
pretending it doesn’t hurt like hell.

A buddy to lie to, to spin my tales,
to paint a portrait where I don’t fail.
Makeup stories to prove I’m not the asshole
I know myself to be—
just a man grasping at shadows,
telling myself that I’m free.

Lucky to be here, the ringing in my ears—
a reminder that I’m still standing,
but for what, I’m not so clear.
An excuse to carry on,
to stumble through the haze,
but the apathy settles like stones,
and I just don’t seem to care.

They told me there’s something better,
a way out of this mess I’ve made.
But the escape is a whisper I can’t hear,
a promise that fades with the ringing in my ears.
It should have been far worse, they say,
but I’ve learned to numb the voices away.

I’m trapped in this game, chasing my own tail,
playing with fire, expecting to prevail.
But the truth is a bullet lodged in my bones,
and no amount of lies can make me feel whole.

I’ve been told there’s more to this life—
something better, something bright.
But when the smoke clears and the dust has blown,
I’m still here, gunned and stoned.

What’s left to lose when you’ve already fallen?
A body bruised, a heart that’s swollen.
Still, I stand with my feet on the line,
waiting for the blow that will finally unwind
all the excuses, the stories I’ve spun—
just a fool with a loaded gun.