It's a big big world.
It's sickly and stern.
Quickly it turns.
This is my world.
It runs from my life.
With two guns and a knife.
And a self deprecating attitude.
(Instrumental repeat)
Running, running, running, running.
Everything is slowly burning.
Fucking, killing, stinging, gunning.
Still we see this world as stunning?
Cunning, cunning, cunning, cunning.
What the fuck this isn't cunning.
What the fuck even is cunning?
What the fuck we are not cunning!
Turning, turning, turning, turning.
Those terns they turned there till the times
That torn their terms then timed ten tons
Those learnt they're time done learning turning.
And still we're burning?
Still we're burning!
We are burning.
What the fuck are we even earning?
We even learning?
We even turning?
Has time stopped?
Is this concerning?
We've mixed lives with life
and still we're churning.
Placed minds on lines,
characters no kerning.
Screaming out for peace,
Loudly we're yearning.
Select bad ways,
ignore ways sterling.
Ways to win
our world still whirling.
We miss the ball
and leave it hurling.
Clearly one way or another
we end up learning.
Do or die,
fix life with pride,
or live for suicide,
which should we decide?
Learn lies or truth.
Learn truth or lies.
Learn proof or die.
Still you're learning?
-
Author:
birdbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 13th, 2026 03:40
- Category: Sad
- Views: 8
Offline)
Comments1
A poem that seems meant to be a song. Nicely done with repeated power and questioning of the purpose of life. Well penned
I'mma stop questioning your haste to reply, thank you, all these were from my most depressed stage of my life currently, and obviously during then I lived even moreso off of music. So of course everything is written musically. Thats why when I was writing these I didn't even call myself a poet, I was calling myself a lyricist. I still do.
The ancient bard often sang his his poems in song format. Most always around, more than god so they say, that's why I'm known as The Watcher. You are most welcome
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