Come see me like the normal man that I am.
Have a good look into these forgotten eyes.

Working on the beauty of bullets in my mind.
Blistering skies, whispering skies.

Cant find me...

Underneath my skin a flare of a violence brand.
Bullets live in the black holes on the wrong side of my face.

Dreading the regrets brought by a steady hand.
Waiting by the altar to pray for the wrong kind of grace.

A quivering echo that was not planned.
Below the dream, teeth and soles lonely stand.

Ready to train.
Ready to maim.
Ready to blame.

Anyone, anything, anywhere,
everywhere, everyone, everything.

Hollow oil in the tips of my aching hands,
come find me and make me the lesser of a beautiful man.

Fun in the gun,
outrun the burn,
hope there is none.

Let me be the worst moral lesson to the common man.
A beautiful man with blood on his hands.

Making these feelings year around and round in a festering sky.
Nothing but the troubles of an old man.

Raise away the razor wire spinning around your neck.
Restoring the hollow idea of a sun to spy.

Ready to break.
Ready to wake.
Ready to ache.

Bullets fall like rain,
ahead of all in pain,
this beauty is not in vain.

You found me.