F.T.Willz poems (prolly frank iero no one knows)

no title TW// suicide

there was once a man, a run of the mill caucasian office drone. he carried a little too much weight around the waist, he never saw the sun, never socialized, never said hello to pretty women on the city streets, never did anything really worth a crap for society. every day, the rubber band in the back of his brain labeled
"control" stretched and frayed, until one day it snapped, ping ponging back and forth inside his skull, and he had a revelation: death was the answer, the only thing he had left. razors were too daunting, hanging too slow, pills too unreliable. the only thing to do was to go out and buy a gun, a shotgun, a handgun, a gun. so he waited until the weekend, then drove out to get a license for the firearm, and afterwards to the gun store. he'd never done this before, so instead of confidently naming what he wanted, he pointed and mumbled until there was a small pistol and a box of bullets on the store counter. while he waited for the balding old senior citizen behind the register to ring up his purchases, he realized that hey. no one wants to see an ugly fat man, why would they want to see a dead ugly fat man? what he had to do before ending it was to shape up, get himself into a more handsome state for an open casket funeral. they'd all file past, eyes brimming with regret, cracked voices whispering about how he was so lovely, how could he do this to himself. so while he sat in his car, before he set off to drive back home to his shitty apartment full of garbage and dirty floors, he picked a single bullet out of the box at random, rolling it between his fingers for a moment and then slipping it into his pocket. that would be the one to finish him off, it was his lucky charm, but he couldn't utilize it until the time came.

time passed. a few months, maybe more.

the man was attending the gym daily now, he'd cleaned up his apartment, his boss had given him a raise, and pretty women now said hello to him on the city streets. at work, he'd often take that single bullet out of his pocket and fiddle with it while someone spoke to him, or when there were idle moments. his coworkers asked him why he had it, and he'd just smile and tell them that he'd picked it up somewhere and decided that it was his lucky charm, and that so far it was doing him a lot of good. no one would question it. he answered the phone when his friends called, going out into the world to see what he could see. an improved wardrobe, healthier eating, money, expensive things, pretty things, a slimmed up physique. the american dream. then one night, he was sitting on his fancy faux leather couch, watching some stupid reality show on his hi def flat screen while he ate a microwavable TV meal out of the container (weight watchers, of course), and he felt that it was finally time. so one last time, he picked up his lucky charm, shining it on his shirt to make it really glow. he loaded it into the gun that he kept inside the storage ottoman by the coffee table, then put the muzzle to his skull, taking his last breath, closing his eyes for the last time. bang. the man's lucky charm went straight through his head, he shot himself dead.
there once was a man.

-F.T.WillZ