He'd trade his guns for love, but he's caught in the crossfire. He keeps waking up, but it's not to the sound of birds. The tyranny, the violent streets deprived of all that we're blessed with. We can't get enough, no. Heaven, if you sent us down so we could build a playground for the sinners to play as saints, you'd be so proud of what we made. I hope you got some beds around because you're the only refuge now for every mother, every child, and every brother that's caught in the crossfire. I'd trade my luck to know why he's caught in the crossfire. I'm here waking up to the sun and the sound of birds. Society's anxiety deprived of all that we're blessed with. We can't get enough, no. Heaven, if you sent us down so we could build a playground for the sinners to play as saints, you'd be so proud of what we made. I hope you have some beds around because you're the only refuge now for every mother, every child, and every brother that's caught in the crossfire. Can I trust what I'm given? When faith still needs a gun, whose ammunition justifies the wrong? So, I'm asking from above, can I trust what I'm given even when it cuts? So, Heaven, if you sent us down so we could build a playground for the sinners to play as saints, you'd be so proud of what we made. I hope you've got some beds around because you're the only refuge now for every mother, every child, and every brother that's caught in the crossfire.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories/Song Lyrics
Short StoryThis is mainly full of song lyrics. Sorry. I'm not creative enough to actually make short stories. There are, like, two chapters that are short stories, but that's it. TW: If you're easily disturbed by talk or mention of suicide, some chapters are n...
