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Schörde
My chords become swordsTiny little bladesFloating around in the airThey’re made out of pure soundDirected towards my enemiesWhich come at me in hordesI point and I prayI get on my kneesI plead with the lordNot to be seizedThe lord is not pleasedBut he grants my requestSo off with my headAnd now I can restFor I
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self dem-on-ise
self demise, fabricated lies. inwards pointing hatred makes me realise. why i feel so lonely, why i feel so down, why i feel so unbearable. its because i dropped my crown…
McDream's Poetry 