I guess I'll never be the pretty one. And I guess I'll never be your only one. No, I will never be what you want me to be. That's gotta be alright in someone's book. And I can't always say that I'm confident. No, I can't always say that I'm present. Because past and future loom in the corners of my room late night before I put my head to rest.
Why is perfect just a curse word that I use in my mind? Why are boulders and blunders just a one way, turn back sign? I do this to me. So why can't I learn from the things I see? Guess this learning has already been done. The walls say let yourself be free , but not too much. The floor cries come on man grow up but don't you rush. The doors show where to go, but they don't tell me what I have to know.
Sometimes the world can seem just so messed up
I feel the heaviness pressed in my chest, always do my best, or at least I try. What does best mean to a pedant guy? Same old, same old, story continues to be told. But what happens if it stops?
I guess I'll never meet the ideal. So why does it seem so tangible, so real? We're all a parallel. A funhouse a mirror, a scripted show and tell. But what happens if it stops?
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