Looking down the barrel of a gun
is not the place you want to be.
That place does not consist of fun,
it is not the place that makes you free.
It is the place of anxiety and rage
and gets worse with every turn of the page.
Like a book you don't want to read.
The fear builds up as if you bleed,
bleed goodness and joy.
Like an unwound toy
you can't get anywhere
without playing a huge fare.
Your clocks unwound and broken
your pride is strokin'.
With no light at the end of the tunnel,
forced to drink through a funnel.
You're left to die
and your innards fry.
You wish it would all go away,
the darkness and dismay.
The fear builds and the light dims
and you're left... alone...
