Someone, somewhere
is lying to you
and to themselves
and to everything.
Someone, somewhere
stares into reflections that cannot be theirs
before they rest, each night
imagining how perfect they'd be
if only this were different
if only that had changed.
Donning masks, and capes
and smiling at all the wrong times
just trying to understand what it takes
to be invincible
and meaningful.
But they don't understand.

Somewhere, out there
people hum to lyrics that mean nothing
because trying to understand the ones that do
just isn't worth the effort.
And it wouldn't make sense anyway.
So why bother?
Clinging to the folds of the pages
of stories that will never get them anywhere,
hang numb faces
and blank eyes
because there's nothing more to grasp.
And if there were,
it wouldn't make sense, anyway.

Standing right in front of you
are faces that don't exist
outside of lies, and ignorant mist.
Souls that live, because there's nothing more to do.
Who think that how strong their arms are
or how nice their hair looks
is the only thing that means anything, anymore.
Because what else is there?

And they wear a mask, painted too thick
with the lettering of their strength
sewn across their chests.
And they believe,
somewhere in the gaps between missing dreams
that it somehow matters.

And behind them,
silent tears fall from the eyes of people who see to much
who feel too much
and who understand, at least a little,
that there's so much more out there.
if only they'd take their eyes off broken mirrors
maybe they'd see what's left
when the paint from their faces
begins to drip.

But this is man, you have to remember
and we don't have much to offer.
We've got rap songs, and football.
And if God blew that all away
we'd be so lost.
And it's terrible, that that's what it's come to.
That a billion years in the making, is still only a single life
an ever growing, ever moving breath
that grows blinder, and weaker
as it ages.

From heaven, beleaguered angels watch
and note that our footsteps keep getting softer
and harder to see.
And on His map of home,
Our shepherd would see that his sheep
weren't moving anymore.
We're all standing so still.
Stuck in thickets of ideals and promises
that don't mean anything.
That were only made to be broken.
All of us staring each other in the eyes
but not seeing anything.
All of us listening,
but not hearing.
Trying to understand,
but giving up.
Because it'd be so hard, and we're too lost.
And we've taken all the wrong roads.

But this is man, remember.
And those roads will forever lie twisted.
And our feet will never move where we want them to.
And there will never be enough make up in the universe
to try and hide behind.

We're a fickle creation, with lives made of follies.
And yes, we all understand, somewhere inside of us,
that there really is so much more out there.
But we're not ones to seek answers, or cures
to anything that might matter, in the end.

We're a tired, wrinkled elder
who has lived so long, so long
and seen so much, so much
but gained nothing, nothing
on the journey.

We've swam through the inkblots in Shakespeare's journals
and we asked old Will what it all meant.
But sadly, he did not answer us.
Because sadly, there was never much to say.

We've set the bricks, of millenniums past
and we've counted how many footsteps stamp their imprint
and we've wondered , just where they're headed.
But when the sun goes down, and there's nothing left to do
but drink, and fall asleep to the sounds of sitcoms
that aren't even all that funny, after all,
we realize that they weren't headed anywhere.
That there's nowhere left to go.

And still, someone, somewhere
is clutching the sides of a cracked mirror
and not understanding what she sees.
Why her eyes are not bluer,
her cheeks rosier
her smile wider
her hair longer.

And still, someone, out there
yells out songs about clubs, and dancing.
But it means nothing, absolutely nothing.
Yet no one cares.
Why's it matter?

And still, still, still
they're spending money they don't have
on shoes that really don't even fit
so that maybe, they might pretend to belong somewhere.
Because that's all you need, in a friend, of course.
Expensive shoes, and perfect hair.

But we're man, you can't forget that.
And we're blessed to be so blind.
Because maybe, if our eyes were wider,
happiness, would be harder to find.

We'd understand things like war, and politics
and old men would stand up, and take action
instead of chasing cars from creaking rocking chairs
instead of complaining about things they aren't a part of.
And this burden, this burden of knowing
of seeing more than eyeshadow in the mirror
is what would break us, when finally,
it was all too much to carry.

We'd wear clothes we actually liked
and we wouldn't have to pretend anymore.
But it'd be a lot of work, remember.
And we're not up for the chore.

We'd stare above our heads as we walked
instead of at our shoes.
And we'd hear the songs of bluejays
instead of broken sounds, and drumbeats we'll always lose.
And the notes, they'd make sense this time.
And we'd wonder how we missed it.
And the sky'd be bluer, when the stars came out
and this time, we won't resist it.

We're man, we're blind and unknowing
and, God, there's so much out there, we aren't seeing.
But that doesn't matter, so forget it all, today.
Because after all, it wouldn't matter
anyway.