The gun's cold barrel against my head
If I pull the trigger then I'll be dead
I'll paint the wall with my blood so red
Free from the world, I will be dead.
Or swing my neck, from a rope
I've given up the notion of hope
And none will care, or cry or mope
They won't even notice, or so I hope
I just shouldn't have said a single thing,
then my ears would not ring,
with the sound of the pain, living will bring
and I wouldn't have to hear, the angels sing.
Oh well, too late now.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
The gun's cold barrel against my head
If I pull the trigger then I'll be dead
I'll paint the wall with my blood so red
Free from the world, I will be dead.
Or swing my neck, from a rope
I've given up the notion of hope
And none will care, or cry or mope
They won't even notice, or so I hope
I just shouldn't have said a single thing,
then my ears would not ring,
with the sound of the pain, living will bring
and I wouldn't have to hear, the angels sing.
Oh well, too late now.
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