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?
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