I Live My Life With A Gun Beside My Head,
always pressing against my temple.
Each morning I can feel the outline of the barrel,
never fading until I begin to dream.
This gun is not held by my doing,
but by others .
The others who claim I am a second-class citizen
The others who constantly press harder on the gun.
The others that preach love but practice hate.
It is too late.
I can hear the bullet slowly moving.
Slowly moving as if the bullet itself is showing mercy.
Allowing me more time.
More time to love.
More time to live.
More time to be true.
This is not my own doing.
This is not a suicide.
This is not my own doing.
I live my live with a gun beside my head,
Always pressing against my temple.
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