Boom

I Am a Cliche in a Mini-Skirt.

I am trite like a gunshot,
A point blank misfiring,
Overused cartridges now empty of meaning,
Worn-out casings that don’t fit their bullets,
And head wounds too old to convert to recovery.
Russian roulette lost its excitement
When the machine of death stopped its potent killing.
Bullets are rusted with misunderstanding.
Ambulances are no longer called
Because the translation between power of thought and actualization
Has been broken by years of copying meaningless transcriptions.
Worn-out thoughts, so unreadable like the broken aim of your Magnum,
And too much time has passed with too much lost.
Purpose clicks with relief but the bullet is still in there somewhere…