Tell yourself what kind of person you want to be the kind of life your inner voice keeps whispering about, before you step into the world with loud ambition and with the kind of restless hands Tell yourself what kind of person you want to be the kind of life your inner voice keeps whispering about, sit in silence and ask yourself with brutal honesty “What kind of life do I want?” Tell yourself what kind of person you want to be the kind of life your inner voice keeps whispering about, not the version that pleases others, not the shiny mask that wins through applause Tell yourself what kind of person you want to be the kind of life your inner voice keeps whispering about, but the true one, the kind of steady one, the life your inner voice keeps whispering about…

One mind’s logic is another’s strange illusion beneath shared sky, in quiet moments of reflection we believe our minds to be stable and clear even when the heart isn’t One mind’s logic is another’s strange illusion beneath shared sky, yet logic may seem to me like a winding road I would never steer in direction that is endless One mind’s logic is another’s strange illusion beneath shared sky, what you call wisdom, I might call folly spun in those clever disguise that makes sense One mind’s logic is another’s strange illusion beneath shared sky, and so begin the endless dance of clashing truths even if dreams say it’s foolish which slowly decay in fate…

Watch the stars on their courses and imagine yourself running alongside with them, at night when else falls into silence and dark trees hold their breath as I lift my eyes to the sky Watch the stars on their courses and imagine yourself running alongside with them, stars blink through the stillness fixed in their paths with ancient in their movement to the mind that sees Watch the stars on their courses and imagine yourself running alongside with them, though I am bound by time, I chase their light across centuries hungry to know what they have always known Watch the stars on their courses and imagine yourself running alongside with them, each one is like a burning sun that flung across a black canvas so vast no word can hold its measure…

We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we even shift our colors like autumn leaves battered by cold winds just to feel the warmth of eyes as our hope will linger We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we zip up new faces and press down our real selves like wrinkled shirts in drawers waiting for the moment we can breathe again We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we nod at jokes that don’t land and laugh too hard at small tricks hoping someone thinks we belong without form of question We bury who we are beneath the hunger in order to be accepted, we hide the question piling in our chest where real answers struck in our throats like stones we dare not to spit out…

Pull back the skin and see the sickness crawl beneath how fools crowned by the laughter of the future, beneath the polished surface and the gleaming gold and tender smiles lies the decay no hand can hide Pull back the skin and see the sickness crawl beneath how fools crowned by the laughter of the future, and if you take the ribboned box that shining crown and strip them clean, you will see the fifth deep into the grain Pull back the skin and see the sickness crawl beneath how fools crowned by the laughter of the future, the prize gleams from a moment but inside it festers and sours like a relic with no different from the dust Pull back the skin and see the sickness crawl beneath how fools crowned by the laughter of the future, how swiftly what is worshiped becomes worthless and how soon the victor is mocked by time from his shell and the see the rot from the inside…

This is only rehearsal and not a reckoning either but it’s just a clash of timing, breath and bodies that get in the way, in the ring things happen quick with no time to pause and even look surprised This is only rehearsal and not a reckoning either but it’s just a clash of timing, a glove might graze your cheek or even slam you straight between the eyes and now it tightens your stance This is only rehearsal and not a reckoning either but it’s just a clash of timing, but you don’t cry foul or freeze or call it out as something that doesn’t adjust your rhythm because that is training This is only rehearsal and not a reckoning either but it’s just a clash of timing, you know the rules, the tempo, the unspoken pact you’re meant to keep not just a battle where your worth is on display…