dragged out of bed by the beating of my blood through my eardrums,
then pushed back into the deep corner of my mind by the drumming in my head,
this idea's progressing to a level higher than the mountaintop it was conceived on.

as it draws itself out in the stars; by my fingertips pointed heavenward,
the picture completes itself with the slightest adjustments of my mind,
and produces somewhat of an opus to be driven and dragged out upon.

killed in its final instances, it's death brings renewed life;
rebirth only gets to those who really ever let it mean something important,
and as we give purpose to our purposeless lives, i see what you're awakening to as a con;
a deception not of the hands that were supposed to belong to somebody else, but of my own.