Born with nothing in my hand,
I stumbled into this land—
Once a dream,
Now swallowed by chaos' stream.

Here, three things stand:
War,
A gun,
And death’s command.

A war for broken minds,
A gun to silence signs,
A death to erase a name—
And still, they smile at the game.

But I refuse to live this dream.
I seek a place beyond the screams.
Isn't it funny, to hope and cross,
For peace inside a world of chaos?

Born with nothing in my hand,
I stumbled upon this place,
Now I hold what silence sends—
A loaded gun, a pen that bends.

Love songs echo, cold and done,
No battles left that I have won.
The ground beneath me slips and slides,
I dream of stars where silence hides.

Why must each tale end with me?
Why not begin where I could be?
This mask still clings—it will not fall,
But I can't ****.
I hear the call.

I hear it speak in quiet halls,
A voice that echoes off the walls.
It tells me, write, or lose it all—
The pain, the love, the rise, the fall.

These pages show the things I hide,
The tears I've wiped, the times I've lied.
The gun is cold, it stays with me,
A shadow of who I could be.

They say the stars are born in fire—
But I was shaped by lost desire.
Not joy, not hate, not something grand—
Just silence I don’t understand.

So still I write, though none may read,
With heavy hands and quiet need.
This mask I wear, this war I fight—
This is my truth.
This is my night.

He joined the game
With open eyes,
A world of rules,
A web of lies.

He built a face,
A perfect skin,
To earn applause
And fit right in.

He leveled up,
He played it right.
But no one saw
His silent fight.

He shared his days,
They double-tapped.
But when he fell,
The screen went black.

The crowd moved on,
He lost his name.
Just one more player
Out of the game.

One girl paused,
But didn’t speak.
She felt a glitch—
Subtle and weak.

He reached the end,
No points to run.

The inner voices ask,
"Am I done?"
The player removes the mask,
Killing himself with a gun.

A coward hiding behind the mask,
A coward who can’t handle a task.
A coward who can’t earn a dime—
Why can’t he see a bit of shine?

In a world full of intelligence,
There lives one lost in negligence.
He wants the power in his hands,
To write a story that understands.

The coward finally sees himself,
While finding his story on a shelf.
He stays inside his little shell,
Not knowing what to give up—
the fear, the past, or the hell.

A violent night,
A crucial sight—
A family living
A tragic life.

A boy with blurred eyes,
A disturbed wife,
A husband who cried,
A child who sacrificed.

Why is it so difficult
To earn a dime?
I'm trying, trying, and trying,
But in the end,
I'm just a boy who's always crying.

The eyes saw the child
Holding a knife.
To him, it was right—
But to the wife,
It was an inevitable crime.

What should I do
To stop this fight?
The home is broken,
And the eyes are, again,
Just crying.

The vision is blurred,
The colours are blind—
Am I dying—
Or am I again trying?