I don't pick this pen for the spoiled conceded jock.
Livin' off momma's wealth while partying round tha' clock.
Nah, this one's for the guy just try'n to get by.
The lonely mother ****er, happy with his work and studies, yeah he's ****ing shy.
Goes through hell and back five days a week, 7 hours a day.
Wants to stand up for himself, but doesn't know what to say.
His mind full of demons, pressures building up.
Chip on his shoulder, with an attitude like “I don't give a ****”.
But he really does, though he tries to hide it.
Parents questioning his sanity but he just denies it.
Comes home after school.
Locks himself in his room hours on end.
Music of venom and destruction blaring once again.
Fantasies of revenge and will power plaguing his corrupted mind.
Wants to let it all out, but he just holds it all inside.
Then one day he lets it all out.
The same punk ***** torturing him again, running his cocky mouth.
He's not throwing punches, nor is he throwing words.
He's got the semi-automatic loaded to the top
One hand on the trigger, the other flippin' the bird.
Mayhem and madness obviously pursues.
He's got the school on lock, already TOP STORIES on the news.
“It must be the parents”
“Must be the games”
“Must be the heroin”
“Must be for fame”
But no, no one ****ing thinks it could just be the pain.
The pain of trying, but no one gives a ****.
Balls now in his court now, and he's livin' it up.
Lightin' it up.
Laying waste to his problems.
He don't give a ****?
Then it hits em', he's losing all control.
His clowninish, stomach quenching, loathsome grin turns into fear.
SWAT team steady approaching.
His ultimate demise is near.
What does he do?
Pop.
Two inches from the ear.