Better Human

Verse 1: Animus

At times, my brain feels useless
What kind of intelligence destroys the finest of its' elements, that's stupid
Desires destruction, then pains at its' lack of usage
Builds up walls and confines its' exercise 'till its rotten and unrefined, yet claims that it's lucid
The only movement is in systems of contradiction
Produced when wisdoms are recognised, then forgotten
This is an endless problem
A loop preventing the evolution of things that would make me a better human
My efforts are fruitless unless I'm completely removed
But I survive only in tiny aspects when solitary
But it's that, or this endless monotony
I need more strength and practice to break through hardened habits
And awaken the possibilities of things that I want to achieve
But here's the truth - right now
I'm just too weak
How do I do this and keep my integrity, I'm incessantly on repeat
I fail every test sent to me, and
Bail on the people who help before they provide me a remedy
I am my own worst enemy, and
I'm alone
Only I can fix this 'cus it's self inflicted
I just hope that atonement is close

Chorus: Sasha

Nothing but a grain of sand
Understand insignificance, my hands will loosen
I just want to be a better human

Verse 2: Animus

Why do I salute corrupted instructions
They're so polluted and self destructive
I should be reaching to touch the purest of my inner substance
To find the cure at its' core
And [to] steal the allure and seduction from instances of ignorance
Surely amongst them was once wisdom and bliss
Evermore remenisce on my childhood innocence
Too soon it was tied in a noose
And thrown onto shores black with Truth
Last of my youth has been stained with a drug fueled
Rage and Confusion
At least half of these hazy illusions remain
I pray to my gods that its passed
Yet crave for the years that I lost to its' laughter and cliche
I am my own master
It's just, I can't dictate
All my mistakes are remarks that dance on this page in the ink of my craft
My heart is a cuff-link
And teachings of eaightfold paths are decorated and carved amongst it
So my lungs don't split when I overinflate the mark of
Past limits
Images are made from porcelain with a stain glass finish
I framed facades in portraits thought of as exquisite
Only to exhibit reactions to lonely homes;
I need to capture my minutes
'Cus satisfaction is only grown from having known
Your own Soul and Spirit