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I tried to find my voice, I truly did, but, instead of that, I found the eyes of a scared kid. I saw the corners and the angles of a girlish frame. I saw a crooked back, but I'm not ashamed. This is who I am, and I hope that you believe it. When I say that I'm not hiding from myself or logic. Because truthfully, I shouldn't be proud. I spit when I talk, and I talk far too loud. And my voice scratches and croaks like my cheap violin. No liquor can smooth it, no drink is my rosin. I haven't been able to find something that's been given to me my whole life. Faith in a God whose love is for me, but I'm so self-obsessed that I still question everything. But there are questions with answers not spelled out like letters make words, so simple, no. Our own answers are better. There's no arbitrary truths to this life, but I kept imploring those ever-watering eyes in the mirror thinking, "You need solid ground. A solipsistic belief you can claim as safely found." But there's no surety in this world, and certainly not in my brain. If I cut myself open, I'd find all the same bits that make up an anatomy. Kidneys, capillaries, a heart and a spleen. And when I die, I'll either get buried or set fire. A chest full of flies, or ashes in the sky. No matter how important my own life seems now, someday, somehow, what I am leaves the ground. And that gives me comfort. Not like the kid who is shocked to find that no matter how vibrant his paints, they'll always mix to make brown. We're all like that mix of water and expressive intentions. Made of vibrant ideas, but chained to this human condition. I know you want to be different, but you should probably move past that. No matter how much that thing in your chest resembles a bird, you're still trapped. So let's find ourselves. Naive or not, but without expectation of being not easily forgot. We're back to square one of living that uselessness that once we fought.