Imagine your dreams as reality,
one who crafts and shapes how their life will be.
A smith with unlimited skill,
unmatched force inside,
called the strength of ones will.
You carry a charge within you,
A powder keg of potential dreams;
Don't let all these shadows dissuade you.
Light your fuse and burst life at the seams!
There's no need to rein in adventure,
not when the company's true.
Just be sure to take stock and measure,
the loyalty of those close to you.
The message that resonates deep,
that echos within each of our souls is
have courage -- live what you dream up.
No one else can achieve your heart's goals.
There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!
What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?
Sometimes I don't feel pretty
Sometimes I don't feel thin
Sometimes I want to wash every single
Imperfection off my skin
Sometimes I feel a little dumb
That's why sometimes I wish I were smarter
But when the day is over
And the horrid exchange of thought
Turns to laughter
I know that love cannot be bought
And that I am my own crafter
Come bearer of death
oh, carrion crafter
the plains be wrought bereft
oh, we hail forever after!
Be your praise dying cries and blood
you murderer of the weak
raise your armies, a rampant flood
and with ease, crush the meek!
Sire of the end
and vanguard of sin
pray we the world never mend
and light never win!
Feel the earth beneath you're feet
Stay intact, stop the fracture
Everywhere you look there's greener pastures
Have a moment of laughter,
Appealing to no master
In this current moment
You know nothing else could matter
Peace will come full circle like the rings of saturn
You can pull yourself together when you find yourself scattered
You're destiny is malleable, and only you can be it's crafter
Oh believe me,
the innocence you find so appealing
is by no means comparable to the severity
of what hides beneath these layers of skin.
My wings may be tattered
and stained in black ink
But the ferocity of exile
still burns and blazes
within the pulsing rhythm of my heart
He calls me 'The Angel of Death'
my artist and my crafter
Who wove me within the shadows of his machine
Feeding me life
through the ink of his pen
in every way imaginable;
sprinkled in magic with a taste that can
3. a compass with which castle crafters
map their masterpieces, built from layers of
similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
of memories and apologies and everything bound;
4. a reel of delicate threads which
fervently await a seamstress of words to
weave them together;
*impressionable when you don’t mean it,
fleeting when you do.
White barren road, cold, bone-chilling gusts;
bits of snow dance and twirl its way to its destination.
Warm rays of shine, cool feel of water;
under magnitude each particle bursts.
Celestial music, precious planets --
ungrateful and so tired of this solar ring.
What am I to do with these gifts that are so rare?
The beauty of this nature,
the skill of this crafter.
No matter what I do
I could never earn it.