Long Story Short

Whispered War Cry

Here's to all my Insomniacs who are afraid of the dark.
Here's to all my Dyslexic writers and colorblind painters
To the Kids who grew up at five
And the kids who never grew up because mommy and daddy never cared.

Thank you to all my Suicidal siblings telling our suicidal cousins not to kill themselves because
We love them to much for them to die.

Irony is a Bitch and you know what?
I'm glad.
The insomniac has turned to the darkness for love, the painters paint a picture
No one else can see. My baby writers give us a story with a new
Meaning everytime we read it again.

The Kids who grew up may get to see Neverland and the kids who
Didn't may just learn to live a good life.
We kill ourselves for everything and then some. But let me tell you something:

If you do want to kill yourself, breathe in. And then scream. Scream like you want every god,
Every liar,
Every person who has done you wrong to hear
YOU.
They spoon fed us storytime nightmares and legends of great rebellion. They were raised on Princesses and Happily Ever Afters.

We were raised with knives in our backs and the Blood of Generals in our veins.
We were left to deal with their mistakes
And we damn well are going to make sure they realize it.

One more thing: Our throats
Are raw with blood from screaming our message. So now let's try something new.
Let's whisper the song of rebellion to the wind. Let's let the trees blow in
The winds of our message.
Let it be saturated with our Whispered War cry.

Because if you really want to be heard, You must whisper
So that they strain to hear our blood filled message.
Here's to my Suicidal Siblings and My Dead Friends walking.

May this revival and this rebellion be their rude awakening

Let this be our Whispered War Cry