Sooner or later it has to drop:
that second shoe, the bomb, the ball.
Roll in the point in life when you find yourself
contemplating why it is you're even here at all.

You do what's right instead of what you want;
don't want to suffer as you had back then.
You've got to let yourself push through the cocoon
arrival of the time you must transcend.

They think it's their duty to point out your faults,
to snuff out your flame, fill you with self-doubt.
Swallow it, take it, thank them for their abuse;
it's up to one of you to stand up and get out.

Who the hell are you? What's the point?
Why even bother? Does any of it matter?
They're all too eager to give you their opinion
They barely know you, it's all usless chatter.

Who you become is a product of your environment
a series of events that shape your soul.
There are always days when it seems like a black hole;
it seems like a black hole.

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