Month: October 2018

The dust settles, the weapons drop to the muddied dirt; each warrior screams “why is my soul hurt?”

Memories taunt as their armour rusts, remembering how their mothers told them: be kind, child.

 

Cries echoes throughout the battlefield, mourning for both ally and foe—their hearts bursting.

Whispers of why oh why, they all forgot their proud battle cry; which now is: I’m sorry, it was a lie.

 

Stories are to be told of the bravery; the soldiers remember the causality— there are no heroes.

 

A hero of the victory lying in its bed, trembling from visions; a hero fleeing the scene.

The bed too soft, the food to savoury… what has become of the bittersweet victory?

 

Humble they return, those defeated their voices never heard—friend or foe we will never know.

The price paid, in blood; tears; sweat; wine, no one will ever speak of it as a crime.

 

Stories are to be told of the flag that rose! The family only have a portrait left; of the child now gone.

 

War has victors that write the history of heroic deeds—though no one ever wins a war.

 

No one ever wins a war.

Your toes curl from the direction you choose to walk; the shoes are nothing but soles.

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

Biting your lips; scraping for what you can find.

Rushing through life; still out of time.

 

Your toes curl from the direction you choose to walk; the shoes are nothing but soles.

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?

Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.

 

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

You choose the colour of your bedsheet, but not the happiness you aim for.

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

The volcano is empty, but a flower bed you carry.

Ashes to ashes; dust to bone and stone.

 

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

You choose the colour of your bedsheet, but not the happiness you aim for.

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby.”

 

Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?

Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.

 

Is this to die for, is this loves’ war?

Is this what we die for; is this why I fought to the bones.

 

The ego whispers “I’m proud of you baby, dance with me maybe, till the end of the world.”

 

I’m proud of you baby, dance with me maybe, till the end of the world.

Put the weight of the world;

that is chained to your ankle;

where it now belongs.

 

It is not if you are strong; it is not if you are wrong; it is not if you manage to play along.

 

The carousel keeps spinning;

not the fairest kind;

Though, does it need to be?

 

It is not if you are strong; it is not if you are wrong; it is not if you manage to play along.

 

The theatre of life continues its one-act—will you perform?

The theatre of life continues its piece— I only came for your song.

 

Freedom and a crown;

duties and vows;

a fate messy and blind.

 

It is not if you are strong; it is not if you are wrong; it is not if you manage to play along.

 

A single little home;

found by chance;

where you can sing tunes of your own.

 

It is not if you are strong; it is not if you are wrong; it is not if you manage to play along.

 

The theatre of life continues its one-act—will you perform?

The theatre of life continues its piece— I only came for your song.

 

The theatre of life continues its one-act—will you perform?

The theatre of life continues its piece— I only came for your song.

 

It was never about if you are strong;

it was never about if you are wrong.

 

Choose your own lines; choose your own dress; choose your own way to act in this mess.

 

The theatre of life continues its performance—and you are the acting star.

It is as simple as you make it—what value is and what is not;

the world crumbles because of your selfish choice.

Again, it is the simplest of things that matter the most;

what little choice we have regarding how we see the soul.

 

Have you not heard the orchestra performing its symphony in your ears—it is just her voice;

words are crawling inside of your wretched heart speaking of the crimes that you now are forgiven for.

A human heart fragile, weary and confused; there was no manual; there was no script; no description of how the soul is used to labour for an unkind world, growing and never understanding it all.

 

What is your choice of worth, the little kind deeds or the heroic act of selfishness?

Can it be defined by your words or your actions and be judged at the end of the world.

Judged for trying to believe; acting on hope—falling for the traps of greed, the greed of every kind;

that hurls the soul towards the bottom of an endless pit, somehow a single voice is calling.

 

Whispering your name, your name of all names; calling you beautiful even when your deeds are maleficent—a home that is worth a thousand of souls, so, how do you define the soul, your soul?

Crown jewel of flower and tree soar the sky for the world to see;

breathe life into what winter will bring.

Crown jewel thy heart beats pure and is a gentle breeze, a peaceful decree;

To make sure what is lost is never lost but will echo it songs we sing.

 

Colourful is the whispers of your name, it is bound to all that is in this kingdoms reign.

Colourful is the dreams about a crown from which magic is born and never forged in vain.

It is life that we feel; it is purpose that we breathe—we are one with our queen.

It is in the fables we do tell; it is in the play of nature—we were born for destruction but now green.

 

I am hardly even a second in the timespan of the universe;

yet I feel to be born in the age of the princess of Bulgaria;

is what my fate is intended for and no other time would be as perfect as this.

 

Just another human soul that hunger for her evermore;

her joy is mine and will so always be;

a curse that haunts me that I adore and love beyond what the word “forever” means.

 

 

 

Why’s the crown sent from gods lying in the dirt?

Legends are forgotten, history was rewritten—the victor claimed the prize.

 

Also, is this storytelling what you are worth?

Bruised and bloodied, cursing and howling— for the first or the hundredth time tasting defeat.

 

It is written on the walls; buried in the soil on which we walk; the reality each face in the night.

The ghosts that sleep along with us; admitting to the point worth to take:

 

Life is not fair, so give it hell.

 

Thousands of flags waving high up in the air.

Are you proud? Of the deals with devils made—at least you are safe.

 

Speak of the obligation you are to owe to the world.

Renounce the passion, bury the soul—you are now part of it all.

 

It is written on the walls; buried in the soil on which we walk; the reality each face in the night.

The ghosts that sleep along with us; admitting to the point worth to take:

 

Life is not fair, so give it hell.

 

After what’s been said and done say what you are worth;

not what is expected to be told;

not what became of the life you endured all along;

one sentence of worth and say it, so the walls of their keep lose its form.

 

I’m the fruit of life and my worth equal to none, and yet to it all.

 

Life is not fair so live it however you want.

 

It is written on the walls; buried in the soil on which we walk; the reality each face in the night.

The ghosts that sleep along with us; admitting to the point worth to take:

 

Life is not fair, so give it hell.

 

Why’s the crown you are supposed to wear lying in the dirt?