The Shooter

 

Must be quite a kick, that feeling

Walking the corridors with power,

Knowing you have that which others don’t

Holding it close, nestling, kneeling

Taking aim as others cower

Doing that which others won’t

Taking life, paying back, being

For once the number one,

The big man, standing proud and tall

The one who sends the toughest fleeing.

Alone, just having fun.

Picking off the targets on the wall,

Just like last night, till three or four

Clicking mouse, scanning scenes

Carrying grenades and bombs, in combats,

Watching as you beat your last high score.

Listening to the screams,

Adjusting gore factor to the max,

And humming, laughing, joking on line

So long suckers, eat dirt, remember my name,

Blinding yourself to the signs

Of twisted corpses, writhing in their pain.

 

But confidence is really only skin deep,

Yours, not theirs, where skin is ripped.

Thrown out for misbehaviour, threats

Or promises, which now you keep

Of classes you felt dumb in, skipped

But now you’ve come to repay all your debts

In silver tokens, tubes of shiny steel.

One for the girls who laughed as you walked by

Another for the janitor, cursing at the mess,

A special round for one who made you kneel,

One in the head for that counsellor guy

Who knew your mind, forced you to confess.

Too scared to pull the trigger when at home

On dad who never understood your life

Kid sister who said that you were dumb

When you, foolish, showed her your new poem

Dumb sister, brutal dad, his crazy wife

The rows and shouting only drowned out

By gunfire in long sessions in your room,

With headphones, taking on the world alone.

As gradually, layers falling left no doubt

The way to fame and life was in the boom

Of bombs and gunfire, getting slowly stoned.

 

But as the dust settles, the crying screams

The panicked races across courtyards neatly mown,

Sirens, anxious parents racing to the gate

Chairs and desks left on doors to lean

You sit in Maths, hunched up and alone

The buzzing noise as you sit and wait.

They’ll remember you now all right,

As you sit and cry all night

Not pleased with the job done so well,

But an empty shell, smoking in your cell.