What does life mean to you?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Song Lyrics  |  House: Booksie Classic
A cynical and dark song I wrote in the darkness of night. Ooh, how creepy. Actually it was about 5:30 in the afternoon, in a quiet house, with the wind blowing steadily. Oooh, boring. But, I am having some trouble. I'm still quite young, and have much life still to live, so I must beg the question, what must I do to make my life feel fulfilled? What does life mean to me? More importantly, what does life mean to you? Does it mean smoke a joint and work behind a counter? Why is this frowned upon? Does it mean become a successful engineer in a shallow marriage? Is this the way? It seems everyone is pushing everyone else to make something of their life, so then, what is 'making' something of your life? Is it success? Is it watching the clouds? What is life to you?

Submitted: August 06, 2010

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Submitted: August 06, 2010

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I cry for no man’s death
I weep for no man’s toll
I molest no man’s soul,
On his way to the banned sanction
Of scabbish dreams

Oh, did the sewage stockpile in your skull
Draining your wits and vigor
Dissillusioned my friend, waiting for an unjust cause
To repair itself into
Morbidly enticing curiosity
Sate the devil’s yearning--
It’s more than you’re learning,
In this fucked up world
If society be your belonging
Then so be it
But you’ll find the whips of oppression
Too strong to endure, and I weep
For no man’s toll

I cry for no man’s death
I cry for no man’s death
I weep for no man’s toll
I molest no man’s soul,
On his way to the banned sanction
Of scabies dreams

See, now you comprehend
The jist of it all
Demons riding on bright horses
Through nasty fields of
A purple organ blasting despondency
Yes, count the crows
As they flutter around
Your forbidden meat
Simply flesh to the pigs,
Mutilated into a pool of blood,
This is your belonging?
This is your abode?


Mister, do you care for a funeral?
We plan to bury a boy, so troubled,
And disturbed.
He died a lonsome death
Without friends or family
Oh, and he burned alive
At the hands of societal pressure
His satanic growls an echoing melody
They say it stirred the ground,
I think he wished for more
Mister, do you want to hear?
A sad, sad story about a boy
So troubled, and disturbed
His dreams nightmares of dreams occurring in nightmare
Need I say more?
No one appeared at his funeral,
They say no one even buried him
They just threw his body into a ditch
And left a muddy decomposition
And so laughed, said the instituiton
Friendly glares from passing heads
Oh mister, do you cry?
Cry not for a man or animal or beast or monster,
Or sky or stone or cloth or river or plains or tree,
Or minds or generations or philosophy
Or science or study or college or school,
Nor politician or corporation or thought,
But, yes, cry for a boy, a girl, a child
Cry for the corrupted minds and pray,
Yes pray,
That the challenge we’ve faced is the greatest
And that the horizon is pleasant with its fruit

 Oh, did the sewage stockpile in your skull
Draining your wits and vigor
Disillusioned my friend, waiting for an unjust cause
To repair itself into
Morbidly enticing curiosity
Sate the devil’s yearning--
It’s more than you’re learning,
In this fucked up world
If society be your belonging
Then so be it
But you’ll find the whips of oppression
Too strong to endure, and I cry
For no man’s death
And no man’s price to pay
Is life a beckoning of experience,
Or a warning of dangerous tides?
One, cannot simply say...


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