The curtains climb to the ceiling, and the lights dim.
All eyes on the miles of the shoes I tried to walk in.
Maybe once too often, stalked by bitter silence
to memorize the lines that were etched into my irises.
Followed the script 'till I was part of the plot line,
found the spot we're these two lives intertwine:
One where my reflection wouldn't look me in the eye,
and the other with a confidence that I could never recognize.
I built these bones out of lethargy and broken glass,
pieced the mask together with torn out pieces of the past,
stitched the smile with surrender, it didn't take long
before this body became a costume that I couldn't take off.
The premise sounded perfect. All I did was practice,
adapted to the characters that I carefully crafted,
but knew I was a miscast the moment that my mouth
started reciting words that I knew I wouldn't write myself.

I've played the lover, best friend, and the son.
I've played the pillar, the temple, lifeline, and the loaded gun.
Played the optimist, the pessimist, I've even played the glass.
I've played the characters so long that I forgot this was an act.
Reality's a passing glance. Truth, a novelty.
Promise is just a simple misstep from dishonesty.
I didn't lie on purpose. Learn for certain it's a habit.
I'm not open like a book, love. I'm open like a casket.

See, I'm the beggar with a suit and tie, lover with no alibi
hit and miss, I learned to kiss with lips that taste like iodine
and clean my slate so heaven's hate doesn't seem so distant,
the stench of cleanliness is mighty inconsistent.
Sometimes I smell like cigarettes and last calls
face painted with regrets from memories I passed on.
I won't pass on until I learn what the words mean.
The pressure behind every one is starting to concern me.
Happy hour has been echoing like church bells.
It makes this innocence somewhat of a hard sell,
but I've found every time that I'm down,
I can figure out my problems just by looking around
at all the trouble that surrounds my glass, eyes glazed and looking past
my surroundings while I'm drowning. Life and death fail to contrast.
Juxtaposed, thrown away, a symptom of our dying days:
Were nothing more than memories at the bottom of an ash tray.

I've played the lover, best friend, and the son.
I've played the pillar, the temple, lifeline, and the loaded gun.
I've played the optimist, the pessimist, I even played the glass.
I've played the characters so long that I forgot this was an act.
Reality's a passing glance. Truth is a novelty.
A promise is just a simple misstep from dishonesty.
I didn't lie on purpose. Learn for certain it's a habit.
I'm not open like a book, love. I'm open like a casket.

I'm just a normal guy that happens to make music
shifting through the notes to figure out what the truth is.
This is to the pages that I've scribbled on and scratched out
just so I hear the way an empty heart and pen sounds.
But it sounds like death; it sounds like contempt; it sounds like secrets that I kept
tucked nearly underneath my bedsheets
So I could be closer to the truth when I fall asleep.
It's not to say that I won't let em out,
but you shouldn't be surprised when I contradict myself.
We're only human. Thoughts change, so do you.
Inconsistency shouldn't be anything new.
I'm left to stumble and it's purely out of habit.
My eyes try to find where life and song attach.
This is a promise. The reason I'm so distant is
the difference between right and wrong has gotten so ambiguous.