It's like being at war with yourself.
A war you have no choice in fighting,
A war you have to win.
A war that leaves you dry

Because it's do or die.
And if you fall, you get up,
You get up or stay dead,
And that  choice becomes a luxury.
This war will leave you tierd.

There'll be times, when on the floor,
You'll think of what you're fighting for,
And wonder if it's worth it now.
You'll try to get up,
Forget how.

But every so often, you will be saved.
A soldier, a friend, will come your way.
And for a little while,
you'll be alright.
'Till your signed back up for war.

Then you'll see friends fall
And see yourself,
See your future in someone else,
And carry them high enough to show
That they mean something.
You mean something.
War means something.

Doesn't it?

At night, you'll lose sleep for war,
You'll be counting sheep for war,
You'll weep for war.
And eventually,
It feels like home.
Where else do you know?

There'll be places you'll never go.
You'll dream of having
just something to show,
You'll forget where you are,
It becomes just 'too far',
And you'll lose faith
Until you realise:

You tried.
It's nowhere near enough,
But when you fight,
You toughen up,
And, while seconds pass you by,
Remember who you are.

Not a ghost, not a child,
Not 'someone pulling through'.
You're blood. You're tears.
And when at war,
You're everything to lose.