You see that line,
soft and hollow,
where skies turn gold
then fade to yellow.
The light grows thin,
but don’t be scared—
I go there when
I’m unprepared.
When noise is sharp
and pain is near,
I walk alone
to disappear.
The world feels cold,
my heart feels small,
so I just leave
away from all.
No voices call,
no eyes can see
the quiet place
that waits for me.
Where shadows stretch
and thoughts grow deep,
and even sorrow
falls asleep.
No one looks back,
no words are given—
I’m finally home.
That’s the edge of heaven.

Hope is a lie,
It stays within a die.
No one sees it,
No one needs it,
Yet you feel it.
Your wounds plead it,
But you just bleed it.
Hide it, confide it,
Still, you seed it—
Cause you need it.

Don’t disturb her,
Don’t absorb her,
You don’t deserve her.
You hear it,
You bear it.
Don’t say it,
Just obey it.

You rely on others,
You cut your own feathers.
A lie it is,
Yeah, that’s all it is.
You want it—
But you already have it.

Love is a beautiful dream, they say,
And I want to live in it too.
To see through it,
To know how much more I could lose.

Will it bring peace?
Will you be at ease?
The answer is "no".
But you're always free,

To walk beside her,
To laugh with her,
To see her smile in a floral dress,
To feel your heart pound in your chest.

But what more does a man want from her?
To hold her?
To kiss her?
Or does his hunger go darker?
To hurt, to break, to make her suffer?

Yeah, that’s what some men think,
When they see her—
Not as a person, but a thing.
"Lies you say," she barked, so rude,
Oh beauty wrapped in careless youth,
You talk of love, but not the truth.

How the world betrays your man,
Behind your back.
He hides his wounds in silence,
Dressed forever in black.

You think the seats for men
Are always saved and served.
Oh beauty, you unknown,
You don’t know how desperate he is
To earn the success you’ve deserved.

The sun rises over a lily's field,
Early morning always brings the peace.
"Want some coffee? Add some milk,"
He wants to write—needs paper and a strong will.

The beauty of the world he knows,
Her beauty he recognises.
Yet he hides the beauty,
And always defines the pain.

"The world is hell," he says,
And somehow, he's always right.
He sees the bills,
He sees the depressed minds.

Wants some money, but
He's just a poet of the night.
How much further will he write?
How much more should he sacrifice?

Slow rain falling from her eyes,
The poet is dead inside.
He needs some rest now—
He needs a goodbye.