This letter is to tell you
That I care more than I should
I’ve been told that if you feel this way
You should shout it from the roof
Let it be known and carry it everywhere you go
I thought that I should tell you
But I don’t think you want to know
Just how much that you mean to me
And all the things that I would do
Ask me and I’ll tell you how
I’ll make all your wishes bloom
But I don’t think you want to know
So I’ll keep this to myself
Write it down in this letter
And bury it away
Wouldn’t it be nice if you felt the same way too?
Hand in hand we could both scream it from the roof
We would let it s
Individuality.
These days most people are other people.
Only a few templates are distributed amongst the billions.
Maybe it’s because they see themselves as less than equals.
So they base and paste their thoughts from someone else’s opinions.
Their unfulfilled lives a mimicry.
Obtaining incompatible abilities.
Altering their figures physically.
Their passions are quotations.
Their theories are past equations.
They become victims of affiliations.
Remoulding their models into the shape of their role models.
Worshipping the words of Drake, Einstein, Rhianna and Aristotle.
Pursuing the idolised physique of a manufactured Coca Col
Old ambered men,
rotting in vanilla,
are bound together
and numbered
in open coffins;
and a mist of dust
protrudes through
their wooden prison --
conspiring with the
ever tempting dark
shining from above.
White paper roses bud
below ladders that end
where shadows begin;
there silk webs spread
over this waste of heads
that thrust upwards
towards the bars.
It gives me a sense of euphoria
When I think of belonging to you
When I think of being inferior
It gives me a sense of security
Knowing you control me
Knowing you own me
It gives me so much ecstasy
Understanding my insanity
Understanding your thirst for power
We are both a bit insane
But that is just the way I like it
And I wouldn't change a thing.
For the Ones who Weep by DisturbedGrave, literature
Literature
For the Ones who Weep
For you mothers who cry,
for you fathers that weep,
may your Angels be resting,
deep in a dreamless sleep.
With no memory of the suffering,
with no thought of the pain,
just gentle waves on eternal sands,
and healing comes down like rain.
Wither by their hand or another's,
I pray that the sleep is deep,
that their pain does ease...
for the Shepard shall lead the sheep.
But what about you?
You and your loss?
Those nights spent lonely,
those nights when you toss.
Sleep does not come easy for you,
thinking, wondering, weeping,
what could I have done differently,
why am I not the one sleeping?
I have a prayer that I like to sa
The Measure of a Soul by DisturbedGrave, literature
Literature
The Measure of a Soul
Strains of music full the concerto hall,
sweet, melodic sounds meant to bring joy
and laughter; this measure the sound of a
new friend, this movement the smile shared over
a cup of coffee, this adagio the squeak of swings,
and now the crescendo tattoo of memories-
lights suddenly dim, a sudden hush overcomes
from the back, out of the shadows, the smallest
echo of strings, each tortuously plucked,
slowly the notes pull together, hanging in air,
broken heart strings make the saddest of melodies,
the saddest, cruelest memories of love long lost-
let the music rise again; this concerto is not a tragedy.
As the movements, measures a
When I'm quiet and still
when I allow my mind off it's tether
allowing the freedom it always desires
it goes to places I never can see
it travels upon dips and swirls,
upon starry paths lined with moon-lit masks
not to the Land of Oz or anywhere in-between
not over a rainbow or through sunbeams,
perhaps through a sea of a sky of blue and pink
or maybe a crystal river filled with pretty dreams
...or maybe it goes nowhere at all
and this is simply what I think
when I'm quiet and still
I'm stuck in stage one,
Where I've lost track
of the sheep
I'm supposed to count,
The flock is gone,
Taken by famine
For the fields...
They are overtaken
by locusts.
My inner eye sees a beautiful candle
sitting in its trembling light,
the shadows that form from its flickering flame,
vivid, but not very bright.
It sits on a rock as grey as the sky,
as gray as my pondering mind,
and the waves roar and crash, they billow and bash
against the shore thus confined.
Through the dullness and drear held close and so dear,
the light pierces through painfully.
It rips off pretense of faces or sense
and leaves naught but what was to be.