Slowly his will to live
left his eyes,
and no one there to say good-bye.
Everyday for years and years, he asked god why,
why his only thought was to die.

One day he decided
that no one would care,
this pain of his he couldn't bare.
He ran upstairs to his drawer,
grabbed the gun,
and closed the door.
To his lips, like one last sweet kiss,
He pulled the trigger,
and fell to the floor

At his funeral
he was very alone.
Only him, a pastor
and some relatives...unknown.

To think,
all he wanted was somebody to love,
for someone to care.
In his last moments he thought of only strife,
it wasn't the gun that killed him,
it was his own life