Knowing you are going to die
is a hard thing accepted at first.
Laying in a pool of your own fucking blood
as the vultures circle over your fucking head...
with a bullet in your gut.
This is a slow and painful death.
Millions of things run through your mind.
Too many "what ifs?" to count.
As I lay in a pool of a blood, I can't help but think,
will I be remembered? The answer is; probably not.
I try to make it to my feet to no prevail.
EVERYTHING IS GOING BLACK.
EVERYTHING IS GOING BLACK.


I think I have died only to wake up
as if this is some sort of sick fucking joke.
This is not a dream, still bleeding.
Still filled with all of this pain.
TRYING TO MOVE TO MY FEET, I DO NOT PREVAIL.
I watch as the vultures circle over my head.
Life blurs as I try to make things out. Yelling will do me no good,
so I lay and wait for fucking death.
I watch as the vultures circle over my head.
Yelling will do me no good, so I lay and wait for death.
As I lay in a pool of blood, I can't help but think,
will I be remembered? The answer is; probably not.
I try to make it to my feet; I do not prevail.
Life blurs as I try to make everything out.
Yelling will do me no fucking good,
so I lay and wait for death.
When I die, will I go anywhere? Or am I doomed to sit and fucking rot?