I've woven stories and picked apart a few

But really, life isn't what they write to you

It's like flying but you still feel solid ground

Lying but trust pasts too easily around

I've seen fire being lit under waves

Living creatures that all look decayed

There's so many factors, such few time to write

But everyone believes it, try as i might

These tales, these stories, all went to my head

Guess I'll write a novel but only when I'm dead.