A Boy Named Trigger

He was born with a bang
So they named him Trigger

Growing up, he didn't talk much
Except to himself
He never stopped
He just got quieter
Nowadays you can find him
Walking around mouthing bittersweet nothings
You don't want to read his lips

He had imaginary friends,
And imaginary enemies,
An imaginary family,
And imaginary fans.
Like I said before,
Nothing much changes
From stanza to stanza
He keeps singing the same chorus
To the imaginary audience

He's not real good, though
He can't play the guitar,
And he's not funny enough to do stand-up
So he just sits down and writes.
He's read all those books about Buddhism.

He can't remember when he started climbing mountains,
But it feels like just yesterday that he stole the horizon
And down came the sky and,
It was Heaven on Earth
That was all he ever wanted.
Was that so much to ask?

He's the kind of kid who notices
The birds when they fly,
But not the ones on the ground.
He'll spend hours staring at the clouds,
Taking bets, making races,
But he takes the puddles for granted.

The kind of kid who cuts lines on mirrors
To watch the khaki colored slashes
Obliterate his reflection

The kind of kid who grew up knowing nothing about love
Except that he loved the sound of the word Nirvana
And the smell of gasoline

The kind of kid who'll lock himself in the room
With pictures of mountains and oceans
Trying to figure what this outside thing's all about

The kind of kid with the kind of walls
That if they could talk, they wouldn't
They'd scream at him like everyone else.
The kind of walls that have seen it all.

Just because he was on his knees,
His personal Persephone thought he was proposing,
But it was all wrong as always,
The wrong finger, the middle one,
And it wasn't a ring he slid on,
It was a grenade's pin
She didn't have time to ask what he meant by that

Before a boy named Trigger
Went out with a bang