Can you feel it? A heavily-weighted chain pulling you down?
You can't escape this vibe: a treacherous ride into the ground.
What is it you've lost, and how long 'till you're found?
This is the day that it ends all at once.
You know where it is that you're bound.
You feel it: the need. An encompassing greed.
All the words that you whisper sound loud.
Giving your patience to fate.
"Keep it in" you say, "for a short while"
The world passing by glimpses fake smiles.
And all you can do, in the meanwhile
is sit there and brood as you wait.
Now is the date, don't feel any doubt.
Don't hesitate, pull your metal arm out.
Just like Ernest Hemmingway,
you pray and say you'll kill em all today.
Who respected you? Who defected you?
If it wasn't for this gun, they all would have infected you.
Now you know: the time is now...
Get ready to save them. Save your arm from certain death,
shoot the body and the brain will follow the rest.
Cut it out, burn them down.
The screams are drowned; Who's laughing now?!
The crimson sprays like tidal waves,
dashing your face like soil to the graves.
You can't let them run: you're having too much fun
all you feel is the pain of the shots ringing in your eardrums.
You fell them all and now recall that life was pretend:
so you dramatically try to follow me:
bring a finale to the act and cut to the end.
Push that metal into your teeth, grit hard and search for relief...
Squeeze your fist and cut your face
fall hard from this world and force embrace
with the pavement -- a chance meeting: face-to-face.
Gripped with mortality, you face a grim reality:
"Eight Lives Taken Sunday. A boy in good health
goes on a rampage; killing seven and self."
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