You must pray for the fickle and weak. As we all need to make it through the heat. Your whiskey neat burns down the branches of your chest as you speak. Expand into a balloon, the crowd won’t bow but shake their heads. They can not believe this tale you live, the life in a comfy castle cove. The girls back home cry, denying all this fallacy. A fairytale facade or so it seems. Really it can not be like this, this isn’t reality. This can not be like you or me. We aren’t merely copies, are we? They cry tears in the shape of rapids that carve rivers down your cheeks. To take her to the moon will settle, remedy this pain. So give me a few years and I’ll get you there. For now pray for the fickle and weak as they aren’t lost, but free.
It's a crying shame The pursuit of our own wealth lights a flame That makes greed a game that lets the whole world burn As the world turns, the whole world burns Money was invented for trade But now those bits of paper twist hearts, make slaves Turns a saint to a sinner A child to a killer His finger on the trigger of a money game
NOT MY OWN WORK. This is a part of a song called Money Game by Ren. I think he and his friends who are making music are very underrated as they speak what needs to be heard.
A wisp of a breath, a flick of a brush, The canvas begins to be filled with colour. A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion, It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.
A red drips slowly down her wrist, As she wipes away at her work. The foggy glass seems to offer some relief, Against the cold harsh winter.
The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes And look upon the scene with wonder. As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers She can't help but ponder.
Why are some people in the parlour But others look from the outside in? For she can't help but question What is deep within.
This scene is depicting a girl looking into a parlour in the midst of winter. She does not understand why she cannot go in even though she is freezing. The concept of social hierarchy seems like a world away yet she tries her hardest to get a peak of what is going on inside. She had cut herself on some patches of the uneven glass and her lips were turning blue from the frost-bite. I would like to think that this takes place in Russia.
Down no plains of flowing grass up no hills of trees that stand what tips your hat? where is your flaw? disillusioned taste defused for all, mimicked in the voice of a flower through hearts of trees, outstretching complex, limbs hidden simply facilitated in common goal, conditioned used for all; how do you stand? quite so tall in divined obsession it seems to find all nurtured and withdrawn concealed in fixation no one finds your flaw for there’s none at all yet from deception, true love finds all in this shambled; shrine, not flawed in design nurtured from unseen confronted with existence.
Hierarchy? ⚜️ a system of life where i shall follow your orders, your majesty ⚜️ I'm startled from your cruelty ⚜️ danger is looming ahead so excuse my charisma ⚜️ but you should beware 'cause I'm the *SIGMA ⚜️ the sigma the knight who stands up and fight ⚜️ the mighty sword in his hands ⚜️ standing up against the King ⚜️ He's fighting for the good of *Humanity
the sigma is the traditional knight who fights against the evil even if it is his king