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