the martyr is: weeping tears of blood from blinded eyes
oh, my baby, how beautiful you are...
your narrator dwells in the past. cannot let go of things that have moulded one to what one is today. a vertical slice into the tender underside, long healed, reminding one of the lost offspring that could have been as beautiful as it's parents' love. there's a feeling of utter uselessness and defeat weighing heavily on your humble narrator's chest, and the air feels thick with fury and despair.
when you cried, i'd wipe away all of your tears
when you screamed, i'd fight away all of your fears
i held your hand through all of these years
but you still have all of me.
your narrator dwells in the past. cannot let go of things that have moulded one to what one is today. a vertical slice into the tender underside, long healed, reminding one of the lost offspring that could have been as beautiful as it's parents' love. there's a feeling of utter uselessness and defeat weighing heavily on your humble narrator's chest, and the air feels thick with fury and despair.
when you cried, i'd wipe away all of your tears
when you screamed, i'd fight away all of your fears
i held your hand through all of these years
but you still have all of me.