If they call the good part of you,
or the good little voice a conscience,
then what do they call the war?
What do they call the turmoil inside,
the little voice that tells you you're worthless.
The part that pulls you down to a place,
where light does not exist...
I've called that place my home,
I've listened to that voice.
You tell yourself its wrong,
but you can't help to lean in a little more,
to ask "What am I worth?"
You'll wait for the answer to come,
but you will wait forever...
The voice is gone...
The silence will never answer,
because it can't lie...