This is /the road/ to ruin {LyricxClaude}
Feb 5, 2014 3:12:40 GMT -5
Post by ᴥ on Feb 5, 2014 3:12:40 GMT -5
(My heart is like a stallion)
My back hits the wall, the thin pads that adorn it doing little to lessen the blow. The air that once sat dormant in my lungs suddenly expelled in a single gasp. The bow, now slack in my hand, bounces softly against the floor. My knees, adorned in the silken ebony cloth reserved for training, finds my chest once more. The golden wire poked into my scalp sticks to my sweat strewn face. The fact that this bow, that sword, whatever happens to rest in my snowy palm that morning was far more natural than expected, worries me. The way it cuts cleanly through the air, sticking into the padding is almost satisfying.
(They love it more when it's broken)
But it was far from flesh. The melted plastic that stretches across our bodies, reflecting how much the sun had kissed us. I had tried it once, with a butter knife that lay on a cheese platter. Taking the serrated edge across a single digit. I felt my skin rip, watched entranced as ruby droplets gathered around the gash. Could I rip another's flesh? Perhaps not that of of a finger, but their throat. Severing the complicated systems that breathed life into the very person whom I had just attacked. Crimson gushing from their wound as their brain refused to work without it's proper pay. Their eyes would dull, like that of a glass smudged by careless fingers.
(I don't know where you're goin' but do you have room for one more?)
Do I blame the capitol? Of course I do. For everything? No. It's our own cowardice, our own greedy awareness of mortality that keeps us within their grasp. The fools that wait for these games with baited breath, getting off on children sent at each other's throat. It's simply politics, a twisted form of supply and demand. The capitol, the districts, demand the gore. And we supply, buying our own fix with a part of ourselves. Like chopping off a hand to pay for booze.
(I don't know where I'm goin' but I don't think I'm goin' home, anymore)
And so I sit. My back making an indentation in the stiff padding. The heat radiating off of my tired body leaving a ring of condensation. And my eyes close, falling back into District Six, the only place I'd ever called home. I remember countless nights of sneaking boys into my room. Stifled giggles as we talked of things to do and things we want. The pure adrenaline that would rush to my mind, making it feel light and fill of air, at the thought of defying the iron fist that had ruled over me for seventeen long years.
But now those years didn't seem long enough.
(And I said, I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead)
Or perhaps nights of sneaking into stores that held the addictive poison. Desperate to please those whom I associated with, we would wander countless isles. Shoving the thin candies into tight jeans, covering them with over sized shirts. Or perhaps my hands would drift towards the dried oats, to stock the pantry my mother had once again forgotten to fill. A smile traced my lips as I recall these memories. The dried skin cracking from the sudden stress.
(This is the road to ruin)
And perhaps my life was not mine to throw away.
Perhaps it was not worth throwing away.
And passion begins to sear through my body.
A revelation branding itself deep within my mind.
I don't want to die.
(And we started at the end)
