The morning dew glistens on the grass
The rising sun shines on the past
Looking back seeing life, so hard, so false
Then the grass is burnt and the sun is your pulse

The beat of your heart as you look in your hand
A gun, a pen, the time comes for your plan
The choice comes fast with your hatred in front of you
Everything you ever despised that you can shoot through

I drop the gun, slowly turn around,
Keep the pen, write and listen to the soft sounds
Of a distant, melancholy whimpering, carried softly in the wind
Of a person with no beliefs, wanting meaning

Heart broken, mind soiled, life hated, plans foiled
Sounds of a man, now a boy dropping to his knees, cold
The vision of a shivering lonely figure, but who
The gun is shot at yourself, the figure is you.

Just a little idea, the implications of all this gangsta life,
The death, murder, for what?
The hatred of your life without love, what do you think?