So they walk with their heads down,

Or look up at the city lights,

The mirrors for their eyes

Reflecting everything,

For they have no feelings

On the insides.

A hand to them is a weapon

But they don't even know,

Their mouths and words are pistols,

Their sentences the ammunition in the night,

So you silence your thoughts,

You don't put them on paper.

They don't understand

And they probably never will.

And their bullets richocet,

And you fall down and pray,

But baby, your words are but whispers,

And tiny scratches on the wind.