Handle and Barrel

(This is my poem for the Johnny C's Poetry Slam assignment. You're SUPPOSED to read it out LOUD. Not the same picture as John's, but similar.)

From the perspective of the gun:

Handle and Barrel

I’m just a tool. I don’t make the decisions.
I do what I’m told, what I’m built for.

I shoot.
I kill.
I murder.

But tell that to this man.
This man on the other side of my barrel, that can
Do all but cry when he looks at me dead on.

Part of me, the inside of me
Wants to turn, burn, rocket this bullet
Out and hear the churning and the roar
My settling of the score
Makes.

I don’t want to kill.
But this is why I’m built.

Not to tell wrong from right
Day and light from dark and night.
I do what I’m told, what I’m built for.
Not one thing more.

I’ll work hard when the time is right.
Then get put back in my shallow desk drawer
Compile dust and try to remember the lives lost on my account.

But I wont remember.
I’m a tool. I don’t make the decisions.
I do what I'm told, what I’m built for.
Nothing more.