This gun feels heavier Than it does in my dreams, The dreams that were constantly interrupted By ***** of paper with familiar names I am called By these people I can't show my face around them,
Especially during lunch time Where I mold into my hunch again, Don't you dare you call it a crutch again, As I limp into the familiar stalls Of this ****** bathroom Where the **** I scream out platters on the stalls. I keep praying to those walls Until the choir next door Starts balling to the basketball stars in the classrooms Where they are taught That everything is going to be okay
This blood feels sadder on my skin, Each door I lock behind me Doesnβt seem the muffle the police sirens That echo through my memories of better times.
I plead once more to the walls Please oh please! Until the wrinkles on my knees Were just as red as my white t shirt, I don't want paper ***** to be thrown At the Pinstripes I am forced to wear Written on the crumbled paper Would be my failures That my mother would write to me. And feed it under my jail cell To help grow the fact that she failed
So here I am Praying one more time To this wall of old stuffed animals Before the police kick the door in. Iβm praying to find happiness Regardless of how many happy meals I by for myself, No matter how many full metal jackets I pump out of this Glock It does not cure me of my hollow heart. I prayed and prayed And no matter how many times I crossed my fingers I could never escape to a better time.