Colin F. Jones


The bullet is still inside me;
The wound is very deep
The pain is so relentless
At night I cannot sleep.
Tis not a bullet made of lead,
But of a mental kind,
That destroys good thoughts inside my head
To leave bad ones behind.
It festers in my memory,
Seeps into present thought,
Compounding into hideous dread
To leave me all distraught…
That I might wish that I were dead
For life’s value it is naught.