Whoa son’s plight, you create the facts of my life. I am your wrongs; I am the soul of the music. When you cry, I smile. I’m something between your thoughts, but my words are yours for the choosing. And their size decides your all time low. The twenty people you would hate to be, it ain’t me. I’m your self, your conflicted mentality. A disease? Oh, no. I’m stronger, A fleck of disgust on your soul. Where your past and your actions combine to betray.
And then you feel yourself going down. You spin around trying to pinpoint the enemy, that’s when the bottom just drops out.
Blow your time; your lessons learned are my crime. Truthfulness burns right through my hopes of you losing, your right to rise. Something so fierce as love, Could tear me apart if you use it with pride, So I’ll try to reject all. The thousand people you would love to be, it ain’t me. I’m lying in wait for your casualties. You’ll see what I mean. When you grow old look back on the love you disposed. As you fought yourself you were dishing out the blame.
And then you’d feel yourself going down. You’d spin around trying to pinpoint the enemy. That’s when the bottom just dropped out. So you turned to yourself, you turned to the enemy. When you turn to yourself you turn to the enemy.
Lets have a holiday.
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