Tree Houses and Trigger Fingers

I wish I could take this noose from my tongue. It doesn’t seem to work against the honesty of silver anyway. I wish I could hang it over the neck of my thoughts and pull it tighter every time they try to choke me with guilt or pessimism. Well versed in the words it takes to build things up. My lips and sounds paint pictures and build grand cities where the price would be too high but, people would still pay to live there. Better versed am I in the words that call for demolition. I need not even speak them before, I set all the beauty ablaze and cast those cities to rubble. All the people paying too much can flee or stay but, as the founder and captain I am charged with going down with my ship. If I could just speak a balance. Articulate a safe place. A perfectly leveled tree house with room for one or two. Lately though, my words and thoughts shake and stutter. Trip over themselves like my hands reaching for a pen or a pill bottle. At least that bottle is half way full, I guess. In love with the thought of the very idea. I see now, with no lenses, softening my harsh reality. I must once more, try to focus on myself. Love myself and prove it. Reach for the things I need with conviction and not the unsure hands of a child, I've been sporting so well. I can find a meadow. No path required. I will not rest there, I promise but, I may take in the scenery along the way. I need no hand to hold my own in respective appreciation. I can see the wonder painted even brighter when it burns with a pang of solidarity. I will work my words, My tired feet, My heavy lungs, My heart with dented armor. I will train my hands steady. And this time when I put something in my sights, I won’t have to hesitate before I pull the trigger, painting the walls and ground with my red victory. A flower may yet hold promise, Even in the wrong climate but first, the seed must be planted. Will it bloom? We are getting ahead of ourselves. Clear the board and start again.