May be an ugly mind,
or the ideas it generates.
May be the society,
or its inhabitants.
May be the industries,
or the monopoly it creates.
May be the technology,
or the comfort it facilitates.
May be the war,
or the destruction it appreciates.
May be the boundaries,
or the hatred it reciprocates.
May be love,
or the bitterness it germinates.
May be hunger,
or the crime it associates.
It’s truly beyond me
because then,
We all are equally ugly, isn’t?
Arriving at a destination unsure,
The return leg also unplanned,
days seem like years whilst in the future,
Calling on friends for help.
Taken to the information under load,
the pain and lack of energy succeeds,
Mentally a trauma too dramatic,
Physically trying to believe.
He says it will be over soon,
He says try to live the day as the man,
Eat, sleep and procrastinate,
We will eventually defeat.
Rivers flow to the open seas,
Like dreams to a void of empty space.
Embrace every second, every moment,
You will never return back to this place.
Something’s you cannot explain,
Sometimes don’t even try,
Its not all just love and pain,
It can grow into something magical.
If ever you stray from the path you follow,
We all deserve better but you will make whatever work,
See beneath the skin and bones,
There lies that electric spark.
How can we tell that the journey is about to begin?
Or come to an abrupt end,
Lead to a place called nowhere,
Or take us to dreamland, full of colour.
I believe that the heart is fueled by credence,
I believe that the feet are lead by virtue.
We head for the shore where they all are waiting,
We fall like the feather, waiting for the arrival.
I don’t think I can do this.
The sad truth is the grass is always greener,
That the journey never began.
We all deserve better,
The journey will never end.
We all in this together.
We head for the shore were they all are waiting,
We fall like the feather, waiting for the arrival.
Working to make a better day,
The dawn paving way to sunlight,
Where children play without fear,
And no disease cannot be cured.
The wealthy have no grasp on the poor,
Each man content and satisfied,
Each woman a picture of her ideal,
No soul left alone.
This day will never come like,
The eighth day of the week,
Is there any point hoping?
Or is the game to fight on your own.
Crafting a stone out of a carcass,
Creating elixir from the emotion,
Moulding weapons from the pain and distress,
It couldn’t come quicker.
Money can’t buy youth or an extra will,
Throw your declaration into the muddy water,
Bold, daring and critically demented,
It couldn’t come quicker.
Absorbed by the lyrics and the mood,
It will take me away,
To the dreams of white clouds and meteor showers.
And when I’m there,
I will still not bow.
I will render the image.
I will become the image.
Freedom to fight and freedom to fall,
The factories churning out the cloned emotions,
Like every other, clouded by thought and no formula in the rule book.
Noted the rationality we want to hear,
Manure smells like flora compared to
your words.
Bending the iron and manipulating the scene,
The destination determined by you, hoping it was final.
Listening to war pigs, feeding the fire at home.
Rising to heights you wish you can attain,
But in fact your plane stays grounded, without any fuel.
The clones arrive, all thinking like you, a picture perfect deserving the world,
Real men already own the world,
Only the worthy gifted a key and the map to the door.
Others look for the haystack unknown that they have the needle.
