It's not even mine but its arrow is stuck in my side causing a full body shut down.
These thoughts are not mine but I bought them for show to display neatly beside my grey tombstone.
In a hail of gunfire I noticed a small amount of hope, no bigger than that of your pinky but large enough to be noticed in the dark.
It's not my hope, but I'll run towards it.
In the midst of nothing I find something, but only my sad eyes can see.
For once the sun shine hits, everything is lost again.
It's not even the thoughts that matter at this point; all is nothing spelled out in the dead grass but OH, if I could just get my thoughts to look upward at the clear, blue sky.
If only I could speak another language, then maybe my thoughts could be translated into a simpler tone.
These thoughts aren't my own, I've borrowed them for a funeral at dawn.
This arrow is marked red, but everyone in town knows my story by now. I'm grey.
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