These are the Days of a Gun.

What's left?
Who's left to give to?
I'm not worried
about my
payment.
I'm worried
about my
sleepless nights that never seem to
let up.

I touched you on your shoulder
You touched me on my face.
I reached for your hand...
And you moved across the state.

What the hell gives.

Will this come back someday?
All this that I've given up?
Or will I sit here stagnant,
Queen Bee
Pushing out children to give away
and dying fat and candy striped.
But never appreciated.
Appreciated, but never loved.
Loved, but never understood.
Understood, but never appreciated.

I'm trying not to forget myself.