Death Is Always At the End of the Race.
 
 

I’ve built bridges just to watch them burn,
Helpless, with nowhere else left to turn.
There is still enough life left within me,
Salvaged from the dying concrete.
I am a man of few words.
And a man of lesser deeds.
But I won’t let these vices of mine define me.

I have seen too much precious life wasted, floating face down in a river of wet pavement,
Clenched fists, slit-wrists, and not enough arms held open for what’s left of the broken.
Living this life is a savage current and we are all bound to drown,
But never let the weight of old regret steal your breath on the way down.

You may forget the razor, but you’ve been cursed to remember these scars,
There lingers a burden of truth in what it is that haunts who you really are.
The darkness cannot grow any darker, so hold your head high and set the world on fire.
Death is always at the end of the race, so learn to become patient with your pace.

I’ve built bridges just to watch them burn,
Helpless, with nowhere else left to turn.
There is still enough life left within me,
Salvaged from the dying concrete.
I am a man of few words.
And a man of lesser deeds.
But I won’t let these vices of mine define me.

There is still a fighting chance for you to break free from this;
From this long chapter made from pain and it’s contents of suffrage,
Turning a blind eye to what’s hidden in plain sight; between the lines,
A bloodbath; a guideline, that you have chosen to live and abide by.
Is it the blindfold, or perhaps the noose that must decide which fate best suits you?

I’ve built bridges just to watch them burn,
Helpless, with nowhere else left to turn.
There is still enough life left within me,
Salvaged from the dying concrete.
I am a man of few words.
And a man of lesser deeds.
But I won’t let these vices of mine define me.

I won’t let these vices of mine define me.