Like a burning monk,
You’re my light flare out in the dark.
You’re my constant call to arms.
Took the blindfold off,
They’d left chalk outlines where the future was.
It’s a god damned war of attrition.
It’s a death by a thousand cuts.
And if these motherfuckers made it to Heaven,
They’d burn the bridge when they got across.

They’re getting their anchors.
They’re gathering rope.
You’re pushing to Heaven all alone.
They’re grabbing your ankles.
They won’t let you go.
The ebb and the distant flow.
They’re cutting your wings off.
Built your ceilings out of stained glass.

You’re caught like gravel in my skinned knee.
The wound will close eventually.
You’ll stay as a reminder of
How fucked this world can be.
Held your funeral on a Tuesday.
Holy water’s November-cold.
The kid that pulled the trigger
Knew tomorrow couldn’t promise him hope.

All these bastards are gathering rope.
You’re pushing to heaven all alone.
They’re grabbing your ankles.
They won’t let you go.
The ebb and the distant flow.
They’re cutting your wings off.
Built your ceilings out of stained glass.
They were cutting your wings off.
I was staring at my idle hands.

Maybe I could have done something.
Maybe I could have made a difference.

John Wayne with a God complex
Tells me to buy a gun like shooting a teenage kid
Is gonna solve any problems,
Like it’s an arms race,
Like death don’t mean nothing.
To know the heavy price of living poor
Walled in by red lines
Backed into a corner.
Not knowing, growing up,
What it’s like to belong here
In America.

[Jason Aalon Butler:]
If everyone’s built the same,
Then how come building’s so fucking hard for you?
It’s something we’re all born into.
Nothing’s left up to grey.
It’s black or white and sometimes black and blue.
It’s something we’re all born into.
Whoa.
Now I know what’s in a name; not just my father’s.
Three-fifths a man makes half of me.
Why should I bother?
Merchants of misery stacking the deck.
Fuck your John Waynes.
Fuck your God complex.
I’ve got everything in front of me, but can’t reach far enough
To reach these fever dreams they call American.
I am the ghetto’s chosen one.
The privileged bastard son.

They’re getting their anchors.
They’re gathering rope.
You’re pushing to Heaven all alone.
They’re getting their anchors.
They’re gathering rope.
You’re pushing to Heaven all alone.