Seeing you is like being
out of touch with myself.

Her eyes are like your sky
but I see you look up less and less.

I don't know if I'm your horizon
but we both know I'll act that way...

But if she is your sky
and I'm your horizon

This is just the love triangle
that nobody likes

I see now where your heart belongs
and it seems your eyes are set on the horizon

I try to avoid being cliché
but that's my struggle
every single day.
I know I can't write
anything real
except for the feelings
that I feel.
Never different, always
the same emotion
over and over again.
I wish I could feel
anger every now and then.
I wish what I felt wasn't a trend.

I wish I was Bono
or Lennon or Dylan.
Then I would write about
what I believe in.
My lyrics would be true,
my faith behind.
My passion is my music
and my life is inside.

But what I write,
it's all the same!
My entire life it's been this way.
And though it's my passion,
I can't escape the traps
for myself that I've made.

"Let me go, let me go," I scream.
I'm stuck in the mundane
like my worst dream.
I doubt everything I create;
it steals my passion away.
It's like war with myself
and in no man's land I lay.

When will it end? When will I make
something that I love,
something I don't hate?
When will I ditch the clichés
and embrace the truth
of who I am despite my youth?
When will I be like the men I most admire
and create something
to set hearts on fire?

Before you leave today
I must ask,
what makes you feel alive?

Is it the blood in your veins
or your heartbeat inside?
Or is it the adrenaline
surging through your bones
on a late night drive?
Or the raging hormones
when you're with her
leaving you high?

Tell me,
what makes you feel alive?

Do you feel it
chasing your passion?
Packing up and leaving home
following your intuition?

What makes you feel alive?

What about the silence
when all is lost
and you remember things
that time forgot?

I challenge you
what makes you feel alive?
Live it out
even when you die.

There is no satiation
for the man who begs in the train station.
He only wanted a short vacation,
but now he's high on the medication
and has lost his drive to the nation.

Now he can't break his fixation
on the thing that's the imitation
of the joy from liberation
that he'll never get from exploitation
or the momentarily pleasing sensation.

He banks all his accusations
on his friends and false information
and insists there's no correlation
between his health and exultation.
Every morning is a new libation.

His drug furthers his damnation
and says there's no negotiation
for he is but a fly to creation.
There is no satiation
for the man who begs in the train station.