The gun that's pointed at my head
Loaded with bullets of blame
Your ammunition of self-service
I know that I'm never around
Closed doors on my doings
And clipped winged words
I know that look
Pools of discontent
And loneliness
I know I'm the cause
And I'm sorry
Guilt is the worst kind of sickness
And my finger is infected
So it is more than able to the pull the trigger
On my wasted youth