|𝕽𝖎𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖉~𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑|

Strongwillism (RAH) #8 Original Song - To understand is to evolve. Full lyrics: Strongwillism.. Forever seek it.. Verse One: Woke up cold, not floorboards—fear pretending to sleep. Mirror smirks, "you're fine," while fists shake like wet wire. Love? The greatest force. In existence. But it'll gut you if you hand it your spine. Power's a shadowed whore you wrestle blindfolded, teeth bared, and forge in the filth. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Two: Love's the biggest gun—aim it wrong, it'll cut you clean. Hand over your spine too soon? You're meat. So stand first. Bleed into dirt. Let roots drink...... ....I branded my vow on a fractured altar not for echoes or empires, but the storm that consumes. Raw strength? It's the poison cock you ram down fate's throat, not the trophy you flaunt. Rise crooked. Taller. Teeth out. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Three: I carved my name into the bark of a dead oak not for glory, but so the wind remembers that someone fights back. Not pretty. Not clean. Just true. That's it. Rain hits like nails—inside, not sky. Eyes wide in the black, whispering "hold on" to a rope frayed from my own grip. Truth's a blade yanked hot from ribs—cut free. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Four: Strongwillism It's the scar you trace at night, not the story you tell, but the will that thought you how to fight. Shadows slink like old fucks —claw your throat. Eyes fogged, "give in" to a hole that eats you whole. But I twist the thorn deeper —spit into wind, let it burn. You wade through shit-smeared trenches, let the filth flood your pores, then erupt, bestial, unyielding. Might's a veiled cunt you violate in the gloom, claws unsheathed, and temper in the carnage. Resolve screams from the void dive reckless, and it shreds you to pulp, viscera smeared profane. Stand warped... ...Unbowed. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Five: Truth ain't a light, it's a jagged cock you choke on—cough blood, you pull it from your chest, still warm, and use to cut free. Love calls from the edge answer too soon, and it drags you under, bones and all. It lurks in murk—grab blind, it'll fuck you sideways. I scratched my oath on a rusted chain not for gods or ghosts, but for the ache that stays. the echo of teeth on steel and the void you fill with fire. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Six: Etched my curse on cracked skull—not saints, just rot. Dark as forgotten graves. No rhythm. No mercy. Nails on flesh. Abyss. Rage. ...I scorched my pledge on a desecrated throne not for phantoms or thrones, but the tempest that devours. Obscure as thorned veils. Profane as divine venom. ' No throb. No reprieve. Just the growl of muscle on marrow and the nucleus you claim with carnage. Venom sucked from wounds—not crowns. Claw through muck, lungs black, surge feral. Power's a shadowed beast—wrestle blind, teeth bared. Dive too deep? It rips you. But you rise—bestial. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Verse Seven: Behold, life's pulse, sand's sigh, star's spark, entwined in causation's shadowed maze, from ancient voids to quantum whims. Strongwillism Seize its whole: divine fate's whirl, bend its hidden tides with mystic might. Life's pulse—sand, stars—tangled in fate's dark web. Seize it. Twist currents. Burn. No pulse. No pity. Just the snarl of sinew on stone and the core you seize with savagery. In the gutted core, where tendons snap like whore's promises not the polished lie of triumph, but the savage rip that spills your fucking entrails. Eyes bloodshot from the abyss, hissing "persist" to a demon that feasts on your quivering flesh. Not noise. Not mercy. It's the growl when you stop asking. Strongwillism isn't loud. It's the quiet when you stop begging the dark to leave. You sit with it. Let it chew your name. Until it spits it back at you—sharper. Sit. Chew. Spit. Sharper. Strongwillism.. Forever seek it..