What Drives the Gun

When I hold the freaking gun,
Cool sleek metal in my hand,
Pressed into my sweating palms,
Burning at the prospect-
That today I am death in life.
I hope you look close and see,
All those ignorant eyes, 
Who drove that freaking gun to me.

All is not black and white,
Nothing is as it seems,
So shooting you dead,
As you said,
This is all because of me.
Because it was said to be.

It may not be enough,
But pointing fingers is undoubtfully rude,
Calling me names, more so crude.
It may not be enough,
To cry as the gun shoots-
Screaming bangs, such a lovely sound.
I wish you could hear her sing,
Bright as the heavens gates ring.
True and solid.

All they do is point-
At the beast they made of me.

So when I hold this damn gun,
And point it to a face,
While fingers aim at me-
I hope they look and see,
Who drove that damn gun to me.

I'm just some kid.
Yet we all share the blame.