It's cold.
The steel barrel in your mouth,
Settled against your parched tongue.
The weight of the gun in your hand,
Heavy, unbalanced, not like you'd imagined.
No matter...

The tears fail to form as you apply the force needed to operate the trigger of the gun.
The taste of sulfur and ash overwhelm your palate as the explosion in your mouth forms.
Then the flames incinerate the skin inside of your mouth, causing pain that is indescribable, incomprehensible, travelling to the back of your throat.

The bullet spins upwards, crashing into the roof of your mouth with more force than you've ever felt, carving its way upward into your sinus cavities, causing pulses of burning waves all throughout your head.

The shockwave of the gun firing reaches your ear drums, bursting them immediately as you lose your equilibrium, becoming disoriented as blood fills your ears, trickling out the side.

Up, up, up, the bullet goes. Your mind is thinking about your mother, your father... the years you've spent on this earth.
The loves you've had, so precious in your eyes, as they were the world to you. You want to think you have no regrets, but the last milliseconds have obviously shown that you do, that you couldn't cope with fixing them.

Finally, the bullet reaches your brain, and your vision flashes in colors, breaking up and fading in and out. You're very confused as to what's going on, the people you see in your mind as your head lurches back and you can't feel the reason why. Wait, who are you? What's going on...?

Why am I dead?

Because my cries stopped falling on deaf ears,
And started sounding with a mute voice.

La dee da doo,
I'm in love with you.
La dee da doo,
I'll stick like glue.

Lee lee la la,
You make me haha.
Lee lee la la,
Let's never say ta ta!

Zoop a zee,
Will you kiss me?
Zoop a zee,
My love, don't you see?

The art of expression needn't,
A canvas,
A page,
A rock,
A brush,
A pen,
A chisel.

The art of expression needs only,
You,
Your heart,
And a path out.

Is poetry an art or an expression?
Rhymes, rhythms, charms, pain,
Tell me, is it art? Is it expression?

I cannot deny poetry is an art,
Full of beauty and elegance.
Poets have such passion to write,
Which is why I have never been a poet.
I simply express myself through pen and paper,
With a poetic soul, yes, but I'm not a poet.

I now know what's best;
I don't know what's worse:
The certainty that I love you,
Or the certainty that you can't know.

I know it's what I must do,
You'll never know my affection.
I would've given you the world,
But our story won't be written.

I'm sorry, so sorry...
Love isn't worth it.
These tears...
I'm sorry.

God, is there no end to addiction in our lifetime?
Why does fickle flesh still hold power over us?
I know I can't understand Your marvelous way,
But God, why do we fight against Your Heart?
Your love is sufficient to sustain us;
We cast it aside for a mirage of dust.

We are Your Children, adopted by Your Design,
But we so often choose Your enemy to dine with.
Abba, save our rebellious hearts.
Abba, save my rebellious heart...
Turn us away from what You hate.
Turn me away from what You hate.

I feel like I'm knowing You less and less,
Can You give me more faith?
Forgive us.
Forgive me.

My worn and weary heart,
Is made alive by your side,
In your presence I feel good,
You make me so happy.

How could I tell you how I feel?
Would you feel the same thing?
I know my love is the real deal,
I don't want a superficial fling.

I would climb into your ear,
Get inside that pretty head,
Know if your heart is here,
In this river of love I tread.

Could you give me a sign?
A signal?
Show me what you're feeling?
Don't be scared.

Maybe on second thought,
We should lock it all up.
After all time, still be aught,
It's best not to drink this cup.

We shouldn't ruin something this good,
I'm scared of pushing this too far,
If we could be in love I think we would,
This is confusing to me, so bizarre.