♡ dream smp poems ♡

It was never meant to be

If it wasn't meant to be,
Then what's the point of history?
Well I guess;
The memories were meant to be,
The flames, the wars, the first decree

Of independence for the land,
But without the main command,
What will happen to the man?
The big man who was right hand
Who trusted, who helped to understand, he took his brother's shaking hand and said,
"I'm ready when you are"

And so the boy he gained more scars,
Some of which could not be seen.
From afar it seemed
That the boy who turned sixteen,
Was finally happy.

But not everything is as it seems.

For when the day turned night and campfires were lit,
Brothers would gather round and sit,
And wish upon a shooting star.
One would take out his guitar
And sing sad songs about his troubles.

After months they seemed to double.

He didn't take out his guitar,
Instead he lit a fresh cigar,
And said "come here" with a smile,
"Come here and make yourself worthwhile."

The right hand man woke up come morning,
On his arm there was a warning.
In the form of burns and scratches,
Smelling faintly of cigar.

There was no more sad guitar.

So some things are very meant to be,
Like sad guitars and oak wood trees,
And hiding out and campfire songs,
The thoughts the boy knew all along,
Which were in his brother's head.
They craved destruction; so he said.
But most things aren't meant to be,
Like scars, and nations, and TNT,
Sometimes even family.