Everyone beautiful is eventually meant to fall,

So I’ll just stick to being an abnormal oddball,

Won’t see me played out on piano keys,

Or executed, on my knees.

Because I’m not beautiful, I’m just me…

So what can a peon like that, ever truly be?

 

When I was a child, I wished to be famous,

And actually have the patience to deal with every ignoramus,

That walked up, and questioned, who the hell I was,

Without pointing a gun, and yelling “Wassup, Cus?”.

But that's just me.

 

Putting, pen to paper, is so damn difficult,

But writing your first anything makes you feel like you joined a cult!

Higher power, soon enough you might get your platinum card.

But if come out alive, you’ll be battle-scarred.

 

So what is it then? Ms. Left or Right?

Can you be happy in darkness, or do you need a little light?

Is insanity intelligence, just an unexplored part of the brain?

Or for for simply saying that, am I myself insane?

Is life as i see it, just a silly child’s game?

I don't know.

 

Putting pen to paper is so damn difficult,

But writing is beautiful, and now you understand the cult,

So cry not my child, I will protect you through the night.

And when day hits, we shan’t exist, but i will still hold your hand.

I feel so inconsistent, why does the page stare at me with such distaste?

Im sorry, lately i've been different, distant, I don’t want to leave a mark on its face.

Im hearing thing, your silence. Your still stuck in the choir.

Choir of oh so similar voices, that sing of the burning of the pyre!

And i swear i need some kind of medication, for the pain.

That doesn’t even exist, half the time, like when it rains.

It’s so quiet, and i'm found, flying on Nefarious WIngs.

And your choir of voices sings, yes it does.

 

Alarm ringing, maybe that should be my inspiration,

Because it’s so hard to find something in this generation.

Lotta lackey’s, giving other kids flack.

I gave up on these loser, might as well call me a quack.

Because, pretend to know em, through and through.

Truth is, I know a million other kiddies just like you.

That walk like you, talk like you. They might as well just be you.

It’s ok that your confused. What I'm saying is that you need a breakthrough.

 

Putting, pen to paper, is so damn difficult,

But you’ve written your life away, say bye bye to the cult!

You thought we were the realist there were ever gonna be.

But now your like Biggie, lying dead up on the streets.

 

And all your old so called friends, they laugh at ya,

How did ya die, who even knows, probably lynch law!

Because this industry more viscous than a fucking honey badger,  

And you weren’t shit yet to be talking how ya did, just an adder.

It’s like the old saying, “Ain't over till the fat man sings…”

Song sang, ya done, now lifting you to hell, on Nefarious Wings!