By homemade weapon, hurt

It’s become a challenge
to describe these thoughts;
an open wound they leave me
one, sullied, deep gunshot

The pain prolonged
through smile and fun;
but within my skin I feel,
lingering timbre from the gun

My hands are shaking, uncontrolled,
like leaves in heavy gale;
all steady efforts undertook
have only made me frail

The sore now ruptures
and weeps perfume;
some penitent fragrance,
escapes my tomb

Immersed in all I tried to be
in all I will desert;
submerged within subjective con—
by homemade weapon, hurt