Stop Pointing That Gun at Your Foot Kid

A bad habit, another gross grab at
poisoning your spirit-self, have at it
just don’t include me in your equation -
a mass evasion of the truth
I’m not one to be tucked under and hidden
a reason to festoon,
a lesion in your season of doom.
While you unwrap your sticky treat,
sit around and beat your meat -
add another vestige to your thrown
a notch to adorn some invisible bone
picked clean from your teeth,
throwing around treasure
like its garbage to bemoan
keeping a blind eye on your home
letting all the ill will spill
from your left open window sill
believing in nothing but still
sleeping in the fairies ring.
Wake-up, it’s time to fill
your head with something more than smoke
be strong enough to bring it
the treasure that hides in you
some zenith astuteness in your dome
be brave enough to put roots in
stop pointing that  gun at your foot kid.