Spilt Guilt

I'm a victim of my own free will The bread is sour and the milk is spilt And I'm just tryna feel something other than guilt I don't know if I can I don't know if I will I talk to much sometimes Maybe it's cos I hate the silence In between your replies A massacre of the kindest type I'll kill my fear when the time is right But I could never fire that loaded gun I took hands with my fear and walked into the sun I talk to much sometimes Maybe it's cos I hate the silence In between your replies I talk to much sometimes Maybe it's cos I dread the day That you don't reply