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Smoke rises from the treeline when I hear the warison. Its been sixteen days since I stuck a needle in my skin, but the loneliness and self-pity are starting to get the best of me, and esoteric poetry is not a perfect distraction. So grab your rifle and aim for survival. Wear your scars like untamable tattoos. It takes more than a preacher to convert a nonbeliever- crawling through the thorns in the blood-soaked shoes.

Climb up from the trenches when the weather starts to tame. The callery pears blossom and they smell just like your shame.No one taught you how to cope when the sickness took away your hope.There's something watching through a scope and it's lining up the crosshairs. So grab your rifle and aim for survival. Do not loose yourself inside your head. It takes more than a preacher to convert a nonbeliever,
wading through the bodies of the dead.

Distant song. Wonder how long you can hide inside your fort. Black tar sky.I Wonder why you learned to sell yourself short.
Don't you ever sell yourself short again.

Just grab your rifle and aim for survival. Find someway to realize that you're loved. It takes more than a preacher to convert a nonbeliever, waiting for a sign from up-above.

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