Shallow is your name,
Popular is your  aim,
Empty head staring at the screen,
Angry face that's getting dim.

It's not the fire I'm afraid of,
It's not death that needs a proof,
It's not the beauty of the blood,
It's not the word shaped bullets.

That grave you dig, that grave is for you.
The weapon you pick, it will slay you.
My blinded eyes, they can see through you.
My rotten legs, will both pass by you.


My hate that rise,
Sanity that flies,
Home for knives,
Dark ones rhymes.

It's not the fire I'm afraid of,
It's not death that needs a proof,
It's not the beauty of the blood,
It's not the word shaped bullets.