They say I’m introspective—to a fault
And they say I got a lot to say
But I’m not sure I quite know what’s at bay
Like there’s more I feel that’s delayed
And I’m afraid of the decay if it comes out
If it comes out, it would be my fault
I’ve been making my own cult
And if they go down, it’s my toll
Cursed with the smarts to carry it all
But is it wise if it’s their demise?
Is it wisdom to have this freedom?
Is it beyond boundaries to feel contaminated?
Is it wrong to feel so gone?
Look, I’ve stepped out in a world that can’t go out on a branch
But that doesn’t seem to make a change or give me a chance
Why must these things be published, if it tips them over their brink?
Is it all just some *******—all these things I have to think?
Why is there always doubt within my creativity?
Does it reflect me?
Is it terrifying to speak freely, to God and Him back to me?
Or is it these tricky schemes, playing me?
How does all this doubt advocate the pearly gates?
How will anyone enter in at this rate?
Can it be applicable to their plate?
Can my belt help with the cards they’ve been dealt?
Or am I a fool to stand up on a stool?
Is it a rule in us to try to be cool?
Using tools we forge to scourge our duel
And I can’t tell if this war is actual
Because I can’t feel what’s factual
Or that I’m going back to the walls