Pandering
Pandering,
Pandering to a voice you've never seen,
You don't know what it means,
You haven't seen what I've seen.
And in the presence of yourself alone,
You lack the will to dial a phone,
And call for some kind of help.
You don't know where it will come from.
Playing some game of cowboys and indians,
As if you were a child trying to avoid the great american sin,
You reach out for stars you cannot see,
Because the dark of night is just too thick...
I think I'll be sick.
You are not me you pathetic retch,
You lack everything I love,
Everything I believe in,
Everything I think I should be.
What makes this difference between you and me?
If you were to paint a portrait of who I am,
Then it wouldn't have anything,
Except black and white,
And it would fade in an absence of light,
Because no matter how good you pretend to be,
I know you're not alright.
What makes it so hard for you to collect your thoughts?
Like apples in barrels left to rot,
Because unlike the rest you can't get past the worst parts of you,
The worst parts of me.
Just let these be.
They bring you nothing but mediocrity.
Tear off the mantle of future accomplishments,
Rub out the lines of a person best left to imagination,
And just let yourself go.
Let yourself be.
And if this person of distilled reality,
Questionable morality,
Still breeds mediocrity,
At the very least it is of you,
At the very least it is of me.
Pandering to a voice you've never seen,
You don't know what it means,
You haven't seen what I've seen.
And in the presence of yourself alone,
You lack the will to dial a phone,
And call for some kind of help.
You don't know where it will come from.
Playing some game of cowboys and indians,
As if you were a child trying to avoid the great american sin,
You reach out for stars you cannot see,
Because the dark of night is just too thick...
I think I'll be sick.
You are not me you pathetic retch,
You lack everything I love,
Everything I believe in,
Everything I think I should be.
What makes this difference between you and me?
If you were to paint a portrait of who I am,
Then it wouldn't have anything,
Except black and white,
And it would fade in an absence of light,
Because no matter how good you pretend to be,
I know you're not alright.
What makes it so hard for you to collect your thoughts?
Like apples in barrels left to rot,
Because unlike the rest you can't get past the worst parts of you,
The worst parts of me.
Just let these be.
They bring you nothing but mediocrity.
Tear off the mantle of future accomplishments,
Rub out the lines of a person best left to imagination,
And just let yourself go.
Let yourself be.
And if this person of distilled reality,
Questionable morality,
Still breeds mediocrity,
At the very least it is of you,
At the very least it is of me.