Life is like a sharp stick

Where one end is pointed

And the other stays bent

What’s meant for discipline

Is used as flint

To create fire

For food

When did it get like this

Eighteen is only a few days away

My birthday’s come and gone

But the war has stayed

We’re used to it

The trees

No more green

Desolate as we’ve seen

Everything’s red

all in between my fingers

stained like church windows

Crimson red blood

dripping from my hand

The weight of the world

To be seen by no man

Not a stick anymore but a gun instead

Shooting damn bullets

With you safe in my head

Away from this madness

That’s what the sick part is

Can I go back to holding you instead?