Pale

Rando poetry

WHERE IS MY SILVER BULLET? TO FIRE FROM A GUN INTO FLESH INTO SHAPES TO CREATE A HOLE FROM WHICH LAVA AND MOSS AND QUARTZ CRYSTALS AND DIRTY WATER
WILL POUR OUT
WILL GUSH OUT
PUMP OUT AND STAIN THE DIRT AND THEN I WILL FEEL MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD PUMP AND LACE UP AND DOWN MY BLUE AND RED LINES.

This is a painting I did ages ago (4/5 years it would be) . It doesnt have a title, I dont know where it is now or if I finished it.
I wonder how Freud would interpret this?