If poems were bullets... How many hit the mark? If poems are bullets Does that make me a gun? If words of hate are hurled And words of love are shot by Cupids bo' How can we not try to escape the ghosts of the past and follow a new road. The death of letters - Oh! The death of letters! That are massed and bound in leather Like tombstones stacked side by side on the shelf of the flooded stonemasons workshop. Language can be a weapon of mass destruction when it is not understood. Believe me That reasoning is sound Great words can make both the heart stop and pound. Bullets of jealousy Can hurt the shooter too It's the pressure exerted When punctuation Makes the crucial impact all the more explosive. If poems are bullets I am riddled full of holes. Plots and plotters Descimated by speeches The parchment that makes up my skin Is ripped and torn I had wished to be an unknown soldier Maybe that's why I happened to look so forlorn. But- The correlation of the script tells us a very different tale. So armed with what I know. With every broken memory That splinters my being I practice the evolution That is natural: I repeat the same Routine Filling the space with words Purely practicing And mastering The concise and exact. Trying to show That targets such as the heart and soul Are the Poets true goal. If poems are bullets I am Squeezing the trigger and Getting on with my labour Maybe I am Waiting to meet my maker. Maybe the existence of the poets verse Is a secret weapon That can not only make red roses burst If poems are bullets- Maybe it's time to fill the magazine Something that has become semi - automatic To me. But answer me this- Which Causes the most damage? Love Or Hate? Both words have special armour piercing jackets that shroud the words with complex concoctions and those emotions Which are so easily wasted If not shared. I saw a friend the other day. I told them I had a new poem. I was surprised when they said to me - "Go ahead. Shoot" Shoot I did with a Villanelle It struck them hard with surprise not once but with nineteen lines. Afterwards I stood there Feeling guilty. And for now - empty and completely unarmed. Hoping that last bullet had not been wasted. ©Jason Disley
