Moving lone like some wounded Ronin
Life is what you make it
Truth told life is what you owe them
No bed of roses
Observe now how I am utilising fractions of the day
To keep alive a broken hope I thought was dead and buried
Turning copper, tin, and bronzes into platinum
'Til the creases in my conscience
Ironed out by these new successes
I conquered alcohol, drug addiction, plus depression
Still, I feel akin to walking barefoot on the Serengeti
Guess the truth is what I've known of all along
It's not the triumph but the struggle
Absolution only through confession
Truth at all costs
I wore the cap throughout my adolescence like a DOOM mask
Covering a multitude of sins
I never told a soul, until this distorted
Into more like a disease of language
The truth I talk of must be a catalyst
For this creation that I'm building now
'Til I reach a cleansing like it's Swarfega of the soul
Reaping every goal until I'm matchless
Practice
Picking fruits from the poison tree
Scanning this horizon for a scrap of what is appetising
Nothing ventured nothing gained is what I'm told
But in the same breath they tell me all that's stainless isn't gold
So, I'm striving daily
Speaking from a drone's eye view
Writing pages 'til my mind's escaping this gilded cage
Searching for the perfect word for how
To describe the sense you're feeling
When your stomach's filled up and them bills are paid
Cosy
But even then, you need to keep it
When the wolves are clawing
Do you hold the door ajar or do you close it?
Understand your beating heart is where the home is
But that life chosen ain't no bed of roses
When it's filled with cobras
Life is what you make it
But truth told, life is what you owe them
And plus the apple's never falling too far
From where the seed was first planted
And deceit was uncloaked and opened
A wicked web that we weave and leave behind us
None without sin, none could truly cast a stone
Roots of evil running deep within the veins inside us
Manifesting to them questions that we ask alone
None returning to the dust without their share of poison
None who doesn't own a nightmare or fever dream
No one who doesn't hold them
Cold sweats that might destroy them
That's bubbling up into the pauses that we speak between
I'm talking jealousies, lust, and greeds
Bitter green seeds of envy
That breeds upon the weak
I stay as long as I can manage walking on this straight and narrow
'Til I stray, and I am swayed by them sirens' keys
Shaped by our adolescence by a silent scream
None of us articulating
Even in our final moments
Depths of the soul that none of us admit to diving
And never costing more than we can pay in finders fees
Life is what you make it
But truth told, life is what you owe them
Yo, that's why we're moving lone like some wounded ronin
Life is what you make it
But truth told, life is what you owe them
Yeah
No bed of roses
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