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Your eyes, your concrete eyes.
Cross crisscross my path...
Walking in circular patterns.
Shoe shine your ammo, polish your metal.
I need not your wicked weapons.
My war is not with someone like you.
A string of blood that is not my own strings between
a sword and my heart.
So much so that it makes its way through my throat giving me thought to speak.
This becomes my pistol.
This becomes my dagger.
This becomes your future.
Your weapons are useless.
Drop the gun.
Like bringing a knife to a gun fight.