It Started as Nobility... It then turned to Disdain...the broken glass of hopes we smashed just came to a vision
the coldest acts, covulsions, crack had drained the precision
the soldier that knows the path had aimed for the victim
Told the man "Fold your hands" - shots rang in the distance
the stains on the hitmen, chose to grab and throw the strap
overdosed on coke and crack and got slain on the mission
deranged from the sickness to sit with killing an innocent citizen
imprisoned within the sin, it ripped his skin and had picked at him
wore his own image thin, the skin is light on his bones
smoked crack, with old cats he'd invite in his home
and a price not designed to be sold
but did, and the price was his soul, now lives his life in a hole
a grave, a bottomless pit, the thought of it's sick
cuz you can't crawl out till you've reached the bottom of it
hitting shots of the Liq', reminisce on the glocks he had lit
every morning till there's a concoction of vomit and spit
.....
a dream begins invading the mind, taking it's time
slowly decaying the walls and breaks it's design
the tye-dye of wasted years and hatred inside
create the kaleidescope of vacancy signs
the place that resides where the conscience is
already lost and drowned in the vodka shots within
alone again, he begins to take a hit of the cig'rette
feeling diminished he begins to revisit the mission
....
doped up, gun in his holster but was numb from the coca
felt a thud on his shoulder, and someone whispered something to soldier
mind too gone to remember it, took orders officers should never give
didn't give a damn, he was taught to dismember when
the orders are given, it's this sort of decision
that makes him morose for a minute, but is forced in position
takes form in an instant, he cocks the hammer
taught this manner by devilish thoughts of glamour
shot the man for no reason, now he's plagued with regrets
hating his friends, stuck in a maze, and debating his end
but this sort of soldier is a daily occurance
among many if any one tries to feel safe with assurance
join the regime, and say that you stay for a purpose
and be ready to get lost in the ways of a serpeant
but when fate intervenes with the things and the way you have dreamed
it takes what it needs, breaks what it can, and makes you a fiend
it's the statements of greed, but hate's the disease
war doesn't solve problems, it just creates em for me
