A name on a paper,
On top of a desk.
That name on that paper,
Makes me hopelessly depressed.
A swivel of a pen,
Is a reality that must not be faced,
Because that streak of ink,
Has that name on that paper erased.
I hate,
That when you are finally ended by your strife,
Less than a line,
Dictates your life,
You are loved,
And mean so much to so many,
But you die far away from those people,
By a bullet that costs a penny.
A desk on top of a floor,
A floor protected by that name,
But remember that name was erased,
So the outcome for the house will be the same.