Tonight's my first stare into the face of a knife,
Sincerely questioning the rest of my life.
My balcony gives me security, that I could jump at any time,
It's a work of art in my dreams,
but not responsible, right?

See it's not we who we're affecting with our actions or words,
See there's no affection in a home full of hurt,
See what the product is of sharing a curse,
is perfection in a sermon, or a song, or a verse.

I'll become inspired as I sit on this couch,
'Cause down the hall I can imagine it's like the gates of Heaven,
sure to lock me out.

I searched and never found a cure to my doubt.
Maybe there was something to my Sunday morning teachers trained mouth.

Here again-
questioning the rest of my life.
I'm sorry mom, I guess I never finally got right.
Here again-
Dear dad, there's not much to say now,
I appreciate that you'll always deny,
that I never made you proud.

Dear family,
cause here that's what we call em'.
I apologize for the exposure,
like time wasted on petty problems.

People always come to me for words,
I always give the best advice, and always take the worst.

What good  is intelligence and talent if it doesn't solve our problems that are actually imagined?
No where near perfect from practice.
Reenacting crashes breaks character and my emotions react.
Even better actors expose colors.
The best are usually bad.

*Contradiction