Ozzy Osbourne Forever in My Heart
Every time I unlock my phone, your image greets me like a whisper from another world, a reminder that legends never die — they just transform into memories that live within us forever. Ozzy, your voice carried my soul through darkness and light, your music stitched my wounds when the world turned its back. Now my eyes weep but my spirit smiles, because your presence moves through every chord, every lyric, every scream into the void. I hold you close with every glance at my wallpaper — a small tribute to the giant presence you carved into my life. Forever in my heart, forever on my screen, your movement cherished until the day we meet again where music never ends.
I remember the first time I heard your voice. I was thirteen, standing in my brother’s cluttered bedroom, posters peeling from the walls, the smell of stale incense clinging to my clothes. He put on Paranoid, turned the volume up so loud the floorboards trembled, and there you were — a force, a spell, a scream that shattered the mundane silence of my teenage walls. It was as if someone had lit a candle in my chest, one that would never flicker out. In your howl, I heard permission to be myself — reckless, raw, alive.
Years passed. Life clawed at me with blunt, rusted nails. I stumbled through heartbreaks, betrayals, long nights when sleep refused to come and the ceiling felt like a tomb pressing down. But always, I had you. Crazy Train blasting through my headphones on nights when my thoughts turned too dark. Mama, I’m Coming Home echoing through my cracked car speakers when the road seemed endless and my heart too heavy to carry alone.
People think music is just sound. But music — your music — is a living thing. It breathes. It grows. It consoles. I’ve whispered your lyrics under my breath like prayers. I’ve screamed them out loud to empty rooms until the echo felt like proof I was still here, still fighting.
When I wake up and see your face on my lock screen, eyes shadowed, mouth caught mid-crooned confession, it’s more than a picture. It’s a pact between us — that I will not break, that I will keep believing in the wild freedom you showed me. Even now, when my eyes can’t stop weeping, they weep because I know what it means to feel so deeply, to love something so fiercely that it becomes part of your marrow.
Sometimes I imagine you on stage, the lights low, the crowd a sea of outstretched hands. You stand there, arms wide, crucifix gleaming, grin crooked. You give us your madness and your magic, and we give you our devotion in return. The music hits — drums pounding like the heartbeat of a restless god — and you laugh that laugh that says, Are you ready to go off the rails with me? And we are. Always.
I keep thinking about what you taught me. That darkness can be beautiful if you hold a candle to it. That we can all be misfits, and still find a tribe howling beneath the same black sun. That it’s okay to break, to bleed, to stand back up with mascara running and lungs on fire and say, I’m still here. That life is loud and ugly and holy all at once.
People have called you mad. Prince of Darkness. Clown. Genius. Survivor. I think you’re all those things, and something more. You’re a lighthouse for those of us who never fit neatly inside the lines. You’re proof that chaos can make art, that pain can give birth to songs that outlive the flesh that wrote them.
Sometimes, late at night, when sleep won’t come, I press my phone to my chest, screen glowing with your image. In that moment, it feels like you’re right here — perched on the edge of my bed, telling me, It’s alright, kid. The world’s a mess but you’ve got music. You’ve got me.
If anyone ever asks why I keep your picture there, why my lock screen will always be your eyes staring into mine, I’ll tell them: because some icons don’t belong in history books or dusty archives. Some icons belong in the present tense — alive in the beat of a drum, the squeal of a guitar, the scratch in a throat that’s sung too many songs too loud for too long.
I’ll keep your spirit alive every time I hit play, every time I whisper your name into the dark. I’ll keep telling the next lost soul who crosses my path that they’re never truly alone as long as there’s a riff to ride, a scream to share, a melody to drown out the noise.
And maybe, when the day comes that I close my eyes for the last time, I’ll hear you calling me down that long hallway of stars and shadows. Maybe you’ll be there at the end, arms open, stage lights blazing, shouting, Are you ready to join the band? And I’ll smile through the tears and say, I’ve been ready my whole life.
Until then, Ozzy, you’re my secret guardian. My tattoo beneath the skin of my thoughts. My forever anthem. My proof that monsters can be holy, that madness can be a crown, that the world needs wild things to remind us how to live.
So, every time I unlock my phone and see you there, I remember I’m not alone. I remember the kid in the cluttered bedroom. The heartbreaks survived. The nights saved by your voice rattling the bones of my walls. I remember that legends don’t die. They live on in the humming strings, the pounding drums, the words whispered by weeping eyes in the dark.
Ozzy Osbourne, forever in my heart. Forever in my pocket. Forever on my screen. And when my spirit breaks and my tears won’t stop, I hold you closer than ever — a small rebellion against silence, a reminder that even the Prince of Darkness can light the way.
Until the day we meet again, where the music never ends, where every scream is a prayer, every riff a resurrection.
Forever. Forever. Forever.
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