I see a glimmer, nothing but blurry edges. 
I see a way out, but I cannot take it. 

And there I am, head bowed, praying on my knees 
at the white ceramic altar, sacred, 
pledged to keep within the soul at least, 
the headache will tell if I did. 

First and last of my kind/ 
proud and pointless. 
The confession of a madman/ 
sincere and unheard. 
dusty puppet handled by the ghosts. 

We're all tightrope walkers 
above our personal ravine 
will i fall? am I falling yet? 
so thanks for this defective wings I have. 
will I fall? i falling yet? 
so thanks for this defective wings I have. 

We all have an own pain therapy, no exceptions. 
You're not different enough to judge. 
You're none to judge. 

I'll find fake and temporary relief, just to sink again. 
And like the tide, I'll swing and balance, 
for the same reason of being. 
As the tide.