The fire that burns inside you seeks to eat away at your veins (lifeline)
Waiting for the moment when the storm will strike again (this time)
Intense burst of anger levels everything around (blitzkrieg)
Friends and enemies alike are driven to the ground (you need)

Time to relax, you need some space
Matter of Fact, you have to face that
Something deep inside that rips control away from you (insane)
Suppressing all logic and you know just what to do (your brain)
“Just leave me alone, I need some time to get away” (you’re through)
Beating at the wall but you repair it every day (what do)

You think of when you’re like that
Your anger rules all, Matter of Fact, you

Try to plot your motives, just what keeps you ticking when (you burst)
Fueled by self oppression, the real you is on hold then (who’s first)
The ones who are the closest, the ones that you like the best (knocked down)
You’re not so safe to be around, don’t know when you’ll go next (you’ve found)

All your life you’ve lived a lie
See it all but don’t know why, and

As this keeps on going on you become more violent (once more)
Now no one is safe from your widespread torment (you saw)
People living their lives offering you no pity (why not)
Bawling, “They’ve got riches, why were they denied of me?” (you’ve got)

Chip on your shoulder, nose in the air
Matter of Fact, why should you care what

Happens to you, yea sure, you’ve still got your pride (big deal)
Depression haunts you and you contemplate suicide (you feel)
Someone has been using you all your life (downhill)
Someone else is responsible for your strife (but still)

Life begins to pass you by
Sunk so low you hardly try to

Defend what you’re thinking, you don’t know just what you think (unsure)
Matter of Fact I don’t know just how deep you will sink (blood spoor)
Seven Turns, a hangman’s noose, a lengthy suicide note (explain)
All the anguish you feel, then tear up what you just wrote (it’s plain)

No ambission, nowhere to run
Russian Roulette with an empty gun, when

You die no one will miss you, they are sure to forget (your hate)
Those who you think care about you ask, “Aren’t you dead yet?” (too late)
Nothing left to live for, you’ve got no ambission (step one)
Slit your wrist, a razor blade, completed your mission (it’s done)
MATTER OF FACT!