they'll look at me like i'm a freak,
if they find out what i've done.
they'll give me no chance to speak.
my friends might as well hand me the gun.
my pencil strokes, writing this down;
i feel an instant pang of guilt,
thinking of the end right now,
throwing away everything i built.
i could never do it, i'm not strong.
i want to see more, do more,
but if it makes everyone happier, is it wrong?
no one would miss me anyway.
written a long time ago