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Feb 2015
The walk down the road hasn't lasted too long --
I'm still listening to the same song I was when I left home;
Miles remain under blistering suns,
As I continuously finger this loaded gun I stole.
Maybe this is revenge?
Baby, this is revenge.

At last, I have reached the centre of town:
I can guarantee that this world won't drag me down anymore.
I lie down and put the gun to your head;
I am certain that I want you dead -- what are you asking for?
Maybe this is the end?
Baby, this is the end.

Oh I'm ever so glad to see the world started without me.
Oh I'm ever so glad to see the world started without me.

As the riot continues I am stepped on,
And the thoughts come back: I don't know if I'm wrong, or should I pull?
I don't understand this indecision:
Could I please just be granted clearer vision inside my skull?
What am I to choose?
Why am I to choose?

The building tops hide the world from the light;
And, as always, I disappear out of sight, into the shadows.
I dust myself off and I walk back home
And I look at the gun, and I throw it away, the one I stole.
Maybe I was born to lose?
Baby, you were born to lose.
I wrote this piece this evening, and it's that deep not even I can describe to you perfectly what it is about. If you could give me your suggestions as to the meaning between the lines, I would be grateful. I got lost when I was writing it myself, and I don't mean to sound pretentious with that statement.
Written by
Mouthpiece  26/M/Liverpool, UK
(26/M/Liverpool, UK)   
       Traveler, epecitus, PoetryJournal, Glass, --- and 18 others
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