Stain Upon My Hands

True through years and countless tears, the numbers I have lost. But death does things that go unseen, inside a soldiers heart. Many nights are without sleep, days are without laughter. Sounds they are at times like bombs, that steal the piece I'm after. Far away from everyone, inside a room of many. Comfort is any empty word, without the trust of any. This is what my breaths become, the payment for my sins. Of all the lives that I did take, its for mine I wish the end. Wish to end the evil dreams, that keep me from my sleep. The torment of an empty box, on the sidewalk of the street. The need to have my knife in hand, while setting in the pew. Tormented by the death Ive brought, whose face I see on you. Medicate to soothe myself, bring to me some peace. Deaths the stain upon my hands, that only I can see.