way out

BELIEVE OR NOT,FOR A LOST PEOPLE, IT IS NOT THE DIRECTION THEY NEED BUT WHAT THEY REALLY NEED IS THE ACTUAL WAY OF SEEING A DIRECTION COZ ONE CAN SHOW SEVERAL DIRECTION TO GET OUT, BUT, ONLY THE LOST ONE CAN MAKE THE DECISION ON WHICH ROAD THEY WANT TO TAKE, AND ONCE YOU MAKE A CHOICE , STICK TO IT , HOLD TO YOUR BELIEVE, HAVE FAITH, BE STRONG, AND MAKE SURE YOU CAN ALWAYS BELIEFE YOURSELF, IF YOU CHOOSE THE WRONG DIRECTION, IT IS ONLY A JOURNEY THAT WILL MAKE YOU A STRONGER HUMAN, WISER, COZ YOU CAN ALWAYS SAY "I USED TO CHOOSED THIS WRONG PATH, I WILL NEVER WALK THIS PATH AGAIN."

LOST

DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE THE WORLD HAVE NO DIRECTION, LOST THE ALL MEENING OF LIFE, KEEP QUESTIONING WHY YOU WERE BORN, WHILE EVERYBODY RUTHLESSLY TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO, BEAUTIFULLY PATRONIZING YOU INTO EVERYTHING,

WELL DONT BE. BECOZ EVERYBODY HAVE THEIR OWN PURPOSE FOR BEING BORN. YOU JUST HAVE TO FIND OUT WHAT IT IS AND FOR ME , I KNEW WHY , LONG BEFORE I WERE BORN.

dance of life

NUMB

STUDY LIKE THERE IS NO TOMORROW

forgotten

whwt have we done

the eye

one step closer

my burial

the smell of closed room,
buried deep in the ground,
a room of secret,
yet again it is known.

the way of the wall,
is placed as a mazed,
the path of it's colour,
is red and black,
the darkness of life,
repainted itself as the colur of nothing.

there is a fast way to escape,
but the choice is cruel,
neither life or dead,
just nod to submit,
and agree to suicide.

my burial

art of hunting

the art of hunting,
is passed from the father to son,
from father to doughter,
from mother to the child.

so the art will never vanished,
in the end or in the beginning,

years of years has passed,
the art become more beautiful,
or should i say,
become more cruel.

yet,
who cares what the prey felt,
what the prey thought,
what is more important,
is the beauty of the game,
the excitement of hunting,
the great smell of blood,
and the sound of the death.

the finale

the life is at stake,
so thee can smile,
though taste is not that good,
still it refresh the burnt soul,
or shall i said,
it refresh the fire of hell.

the chase thee did,
paid no tension in vein,
so thee can smell,
the running blood and fear,
the game of life,
often loose at once,
the one moment of pain,
and the permenent life of unknown.

the end of the beginning

the river run slow,
full with foul smell of iron,
and fleas of destruction,

the taste of the water can hurt,
the touch itself is a pain,
death is the sight of everything.

who can complain today,
as yesterday they were blind,
and before they were ignorance.

sin of the night

wake up my children,
let us all face the dark moon,
the red horizon shows again,
as it is the sign of our our life begin.

wake up my love,
let us follow the trail of scent,
the smell of living soul,
the smell of human fear.

we are the real hunter of the night,
as we play for many deadly game,
so we will never forget,
the sweet smell of blood,
the song of pain,
and the colour of death.