Pick me up, pick me up.
Pick me up off the ground that I have fallen to.
Pick me up from the hurt the ground has caused.
Pick me up from this strong pressure that pushed me.
Oh but the heart beats.
Beat Beat Beat..for I hear the beats,
slowly the beats fade away and becomes
an unfamiliar beat.
A different beat.
This sound isn’t the beat that kept the
mind, body and soul smooth
Became the wind that pushed me.
Pushed me down, down to the ground
where no one will pick me up.
In the imagination can be a beautiful world
but reality has been painted into the picture never longed for
becoming the one in memory who will be thought
as the sword who directed at the beat.
The sword that shredded the pieces of
the flower that bloomed.
The realizations of the actions of one
shall never be punished, but learned in a
way of forgiving the reasons behind this reality
that has cause the down, that has caused the unfamiliar beat,
that has caused the sword to be sharp, that causes the petals of the flower
to have fallen to the ground.
