Guns scatter in my head,
They leave acknowledging that there is nothing left,
No ability to move on,
No reason to keep going,
They'll tell me that the guns will **** me,
I love the guns in my head,
They poison my mind with lead and destroy my thoughts,
But they keep on leaving,
Why do my saviours leave when I need them the most,
I'm going to bed,
The guns, pencils, razors, lighters, paper, glass, metal and knives have been locked away,
Out of reach of my infected mind,
I know how to get them,
I locked them up myself,
I beg for the guns to come back and fill my head with their bullets,
As I scream from the thought of unlocking the things,
Where are the guns,
No where,
No one can save me now,
I get out of my bed,
Unlock all my drawers and make a stage worthy event,
I prop a camera and start recording how I'm going to **** my infection inside my head.