See a kid from high school like all the rest he just wanted to be cool.
Wanted to be the best. He Smoked what they spoke, and drank what they wrote,
he thought he had the life till something didn’t feel right.
Thus began the struggle, through every night.
He’d wear a fake skin by day, and he’d repeat what they say,
but by night he’d swallow what he did convey.
Cause he didn’t mean half of it, he couldn’t take acting it,
his skin would rot off in the moon like lunar rays washing off the scars from the daylight and his soul would come to life and he’d write.
But so dampened by the plastic words he had said each night grew worse
he couldn’t keep his head.
less of the light would shine with each word.
His soul couldn’t take it, he felt his light die like a star going out,
thats the price for going against what you’re about.
Now alone in the dark
because he knew if he gave up his suit his friends would follow suit and they’d leave him and find somewhere else to take root.
He didn’t think it’d go that quick,
and when he realized it made him sick. It was too late,
that’s the price for taking a false shape.
He thought he was a rebel when he went against the grain
but when he looked back at what he made, the wood was coarse and ugly.
Though he felt like his soul was lost he felt it tugging.
But ignored it with apathetic shrugging.
Each class became a battle to not scream that this wasn’t him.
And he didn’t, he didn’t want to disrupt the stoic students din.
Always ignored the concept of sin like someone ignoring the house they lived in, because to face it would be to change everything.
and that’s the price for balancing on a broken string
and that’s the price for bathing in a tainted Stream.
That’s the price for not following what you believe.
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