ββββ ΰ¨ΰ§ ββββ
My fists are storms I never throw,
a blaze I swallow, a war I know.
The fire claws, it begs to rise,
to rip the silence, to scorch the skies.
I grind my teeth until they bleed,
angerβs a language I never read.Β
It hums in my bones, it splits my skin
Β a drum so loud I canβt hold it in.
They call it reckless, call it wild,
but rage has raised me since I was a child.Β
Itβs not a temper, itβs not a game,
It's a furnace burning without a name.
And if I snap, I set it free,
the flames wonβt askβtheyβll answer me.
The world will crumble, ash and stone,
and I'll stand inside the fire alone.
ββββ ΰ¨ΰ§ ββββ