The Pettitfiles

Cannon balls and Coffin nails

Cannon balls and Coffin nails, who knows the truth behind ole wives tales. I’ll be your crutch in the dark night, I’ll be your man when the world isn’t right, but something is wrong with me, I see things that shouldn’t be.

Cannon balls are made of lead, Coffin nails pound you to bed. To lay you to rest six feet deep, the ground now holds you to sleep. I’m a cannon ball that shoots to high, up into the mythos and away I fly, but the return home is always misery. I fall lower than I fly, then pound my head and ask why, I’ll strike coffin nails till I die.

I stir my whiskey with a coffin nail, I pack around a cannon ball to see how it feels, the weight is right, if I get too light I cause myself freight. I don’t want to be the one who weighs you down, causes you to wear a thorny crown. I can’t be your everything, my personalities masquerade and even to my dismay I can’t control them. I’m a pawn in my own life, at the center I’m a man by the river, this is my sphere where everything else spins around, but we all get dizzy and sometimes fall down.

I’d like to hold you forever more, I’d like to know where your thoughts became warm. I hang to you like a cannon ball, lit to flight, you’ve always been my powder in the dark night. I feel like a burden or weight, the truth takes an ugly shape, I grab planks of pine and twisted nails and enclose myself into a finely built coffin, crafted with these hands and rusted bitter nails.

I’ve been many things and parts of great people, I believe like many things this is our pinnacle. What is stronger, a cannon ball or a coffin nail, which one is bound to fail, one weighs a soul down and the other houses a form to be lowered into the ground.

Stars and strips, to the stars at night, this country was formed by both of them, we dig and scratch, search and scavenge wondering what is our passage. The guiding light be our sun, the moon shines bright on a canvas of our next days, but we are the brush who paints what we want to see. I’ve seen too much in thirty four years, in my highest form I’ve always been marked by tragedy, it’s a humbling feeling to be helpless in thought and emotion. With lively eyes and tired skin, I hope to see and live again, I’m built to endure pain so you don’t have to, I’ve built coffins and fired cannons in life’s past.

One aimed at an enemy and others built for friends, cannon balls and coffin nails sometimes is all I’ve been. Built for war, but labored for love, I’m torn between the moons and tides

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