Tears as ink
Memories as papers
Blood as the pen that describes our ailments
All poets cry
Is what I think
All poets cry
To have something to write
Nevertheless, the don't do it out of smite
Only a means to comprehend their fragile minds.

If the world was to perish,
I would gladly watch it burn.
As the burning fire scorches and leaves no one behind.
Maybe that would be the solution and a mercy for all mankind

They say death is the worst of evils,
but there is one thing that's worse.
Nursing your children to bed as the bombs begin to burst.

Only a few seconds and everything is gone.
A whole family torn apart for a promise of your safety and any excuse for war.

As the blood begins to dry and time goes swiftly by.
The blood that was once shed becomes old tales for people who don't reflect.

My demons haunt me.
They watch me closley.
Glowing in the dark with their big eyes hoping to trap me.
In the fairy tales all ends well

The hero defeats its enemy and is hailed before the masses.
This is no story and the enemy is relentless.
No pause, no rest, you have to keep defensive.

Demons don't lurk in the shadows here,
instead they are deep inside avoiding your attention.
Though they give clues leading to their detection.
You are soon thrown into a world of deception.

As you struggle battling between your comprehension and defeating the demons, they get away laughing at your grievance.

Busy trying to cope, keep hope,
in myself and everything that means most.
Failure is not an alternative but the fear of it weighs heavier in me than the energy to prevent it.

The soul will only heal when I look within, then my demons will not have room to grow therein.