Conscience Makes us Cowards and Dying Makes us Brave

I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .

I just don’t know where I should start anymore

I drip from the pen to the page like a whore

Desperately giving myself to these strangers

Who woo me, pursue me, in-spite of the dangers

And when they have finished consuming my words

They cast me aside to be eaten by birds

And these are the words, these are the words

These are the words that to me are a bore

I’ve got something better they’ve not seen before

They keep coming back for the petty and trite

The hollow fantasia of  shallow delight

I can’t make this right, I can’t make this right,

I can’t bring the darkness out into the light

Don’t look at me, I’m not talking to you anymore

(Not until you) wake yourself up, wake yourself up,

Wake yourself up to the reality

That you are a slave to your own apathy

Taking your cues from the faceless old man

Who beats you back down, again and again

Pick up the blade and then step out to war

Your shield off the shelf and go settle the score

Settle the score, settle the score,

Show them the fire they’ve not seen before

Come back to the graveyard when you’ve been set free

Come back to the graveyard, and look there for me

For once you have given your very own life

And banished your fear as you brandished the knife

I think there’s a chance that you might understand

The peace that is found in releasing your hand

To know in the end that you fought the good fight

You fought the good fight, Stepped into the night

So find me, I’ll take you from death into light.

~j.d.schofield

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