Sometimes I'd find myself
Staring at a blank canvas
Lying beside a dead gun, tragic.
It was easy to shut out
It was difficult to save me
That I dream of my world
A world of my perfections, my perfect flaws.
I would hear them calling,
They would be cheering.
Suddenly the gun doesn't feel so dead
It was cold still, but not dead.
Then she spoke to me, asked
Do you still sleep? Will you wake up?
And I realized I was sleeping all this time
There really was no gun
Just me and the blank canvas.
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