Monday evening I see a blind man walk by,

He looks past these lies and sees a man who's dead.

Future reflects off the steel, and I'm blinded by the light,

Reach for the hands of a God that never tried to help.

Slowly rotting core to core, my skin is wet and damp,

I'm sweating bullets, cause my whole life they were flung right back.

I won't be remembered, but that's just as well,

Cause you ain't got no friends when you're destined for hell.

What kind of God would lay this on me?
What kind of God would make me die like this?
What kind of sickness is ruining my head?
What kind of people have left me for dead?

Oh, my head...