Stephen Cahill Furlong (23 August 1992 / Holles Street, Dublin, Republic of Ireland)
Maybe life isn't all it's cracked up to be.
It could be a disguised prison with a missing key.
The angels fool us into not fighting for escape
And making us believe that true happiness will take shape.
These are lies that fill my eyes with cries;
I feel tortured regularly by everything, including girls and guys.
I do not wish to walk this earth but fly through the skies.
All the happy ones call me dumb, but God says I'm wise.
I'm not happy now, but there will come a time
Where I'll fall fatally weak and only then I'll feel sublime.
Life is my prison and the afterlife is my playground;
No more listening to Man's warmongering sound.
One thought will run through my head on my deathbed
In the dark hour or in martyrdom, "Finally, freedom."
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