On My Own.

A gun on my temple
Cold hard metal piercing my
skin
My hands steady,
The finger strong on the 
trigger, itching to pull.

Between my living 
and the chill,
what would save me was
an answer that would burn
it's master.

I could not harbor hope,
for my veins were bloody
murderous
No faith, as fear gripped me 
hard,
I would die, if I did not utter
the truth.

What I said is obsolete if you saw,
What you read here and say I know what you say, then you too
Die,
The gun stays on the temple,
always, ready to blow,
if you say I don't know.