Why are we all just living to die
when we all should be dying to live?

Bravery is not a trait to be learned,
but a decision that's yet to be made.
When standing against overwhelming odds
there's good reason to be afraid,

but despair does not ensure cowardice
and adversity does not equal defeat.
Every man still has a fighting chance
as long as his heart still beats.

Be always valiant and forever fearless
against what others may forewarn,
because the decisions made amidst catastrophe
are also when heroes are born.

We both read our scripts,
but we're not on the same page.
You and I are just actors
who treat life as the stage.

We rehearse our lines,
but they're not what we mean,
for once lets break character
and call cut on this scene.

We could steal the show
if we rewrite the play
and end the charade
of this macabre matinee.

We've reached the finale,
there's no encore after all.
This is our shot,
our last curtain call.

You are my moonlight,
the darker that my life gets,
the brighter you shine.

I used to look into her eyes and see
someone beautiful and intelligent and magnificent.
I'd look at her face, smooth pale skin
and red-gold hair, and see a spark within her.
She never thought her fire would go out,
being because she was such a fiery young girl.

But then she got older.

I used to look into her eyes and see
a flicker of the flame that used to be.
I looked into her face,
fierce and hard with years of emotional abuse
and I thought to myself that the fire was still there,
though it was just a flicker.

But then, one day, it went out.

I'm staring into her eyes now,
wondering who the hell she is;
Wondering what happened to the flame of a girl.
She is unrecognizable to me.
But I think.... I think somewhere
underneath this stone cold face..
I think this stranger....

**Is me.

It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.

It isn't too late
It's never too late to start
All over again

I write down these words
That you don't understand

Beneath this shell
Is the soul of a broken man

Is this love?
Or only a dream

These pains and fires
Were meant to set us free