the window is blurry,
and covered in rain.
they're like mini bullets
falling from the sky.

the floor refelcts,
a shadow from the dark.
the curests me,
even though it is still daylight.

i have my silver led pencil,
writing on this paper.
almost perfect,
like all of them,
but no one is perfect.

the hair falls in front my face,
i look between each peace of thread
that is connected with my scalp.
but i do not even bother,
to blow it out of my face.

i imagine,
and see,
an image of two children,
running from each other
in a field of grass,
far off in the plains.

oh how i wish i were there,
kicking my feet up into the air,
in my slightly dirty sneakers
but yet,
they never invite me...

and yet i remember their words,
all hit me like knives.
and as i sit here,
in the corner of my room,
all i ask of you,
is teach me how to pull the trigger...