A word is alive
It never dies
Some might say

That Its death
Lives in the breath
It takes

She didn't need a feather to fly
She had her own kind of wings
You could see her high
In her eyes
But her sky was the streets
Fly on by
Pretty Angel
Sell your soul for a wing
You could fly
Higher and higher
With the magic of speed
She didn't need a feather to fly
She had her own kind of wings
You could see her high
In her eyes
But her sky was the street
Fly on by
Pretty Angel
Soaring high to be free
Sell your soul to the devils trolls
To reach the sky you need
She didnt need a feather to fly
She had her own kind of wings
You could see her high
In her eyes
But her sky was the streets
Fly on by
Pretty angel
And flap your wings

You
Are the author of the book of your life,
You
Can erase words, delete chapters, write new endings.
You
Are writing your own computer software, and
You
Can create whatever programs you wish.
You
Are not restricted by what others say, and
You
Will never be happier than when you are being yourself.
You
Have more power than you think you do.
Own it.