i was five and he was six
made a gun made of sticks
imagining there's a bullet on it
even there's no point doing it.
he wants to be happy
didn't know truthfully
dreaming to be a serial killer
striving to end his life just like a fugitive
he's accepting all the negative.
he wants to shut me down
and hit the ground
wants to hear the awful sound
even he's the one to blame
he didn't got my name.
too late to realize
even he's been criticize
don't have the time to analyze.
waiting for me cry
and say goodbye
even you didn't try.
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