There is a song that takes me to different places
I can only find inside my mind.
But darkness takes place
at the end of harmony calling for possibility of the demise.
A poetry of murder speaks in a form of a gentle encouragement
to hold that piece of knife in my hand,
and stab it in my own heart.
We're all victims of our thoughts.
But who gets to survive and fight 'em all?
'Cause even the strong ones crawl
Some of the weak stands and change.
While the strength of those who pretend to believe
their steel courage within
tires out and laments through blood flow out of their veins.
Marks in their necks.
Gunshot in their heads.
I speak praises of God and the saints
Such a hypocrite's joy when they couldn't see the blades
I've been hiding in a casket-shaped compartment.
And in my head I seek my father's cabinet
for his Calibre 45.
But in the eyes of the Supreme I can't escape.
Apologies are overrated while forgiveness is divine.
I forgive, but now I don't think I deserve the kind.
Let me be an influence, I said.
An inspiration to the masses, I added.
I guess it'll take more than a prayer to aim for a yearning
that can only be done by an admired capability.
I don't have it.
We're all victims of our thoughts.
But who gets to survive and fight 'em all?
'Cause even the strong ones fall.
Some of the weak cries and bleeds.
While the delicately brave get down on both knees
to surrender and offer their souls
Saying they're not strong enough after all.
A farewell in black ink against deep white paper.
A tear fall on a brown wooden table.
I imagined 'em all.
A rope in my neck.
A gunshot in my head.
