Holding Out on the Truth

How do I feel like somehow I still haven’t told the truth?
Like there’s one living being inside of me that isn’t quite out?
Like he’s gnawing, or maybe just sleeping, but definitely inside,
Waiting for me to let him out.

What would happen if I were to let him out?
Would he like a caged animal crawl into each one of you,
Tear you apart like a savage wild beast’s uncontrollable rage
The kind that comes from being backed into a corner

They talk about how an artist may feel like they are fighting for their life
And I do every day, it’s been a losing battle from the start
But I wake up and fight it every day. I don’t know how.
The worst is when all I can do is be awake.

Or maybe the worst is the hope, because somehow light is scary,
More terrifying than any words that ever crossed man’s lips,
This radiant tower that says “Maybe you can come alive.”
And the corpse trembles to ask “can i wake up?”

You say no, just to tell it to shut up, why? It hurts so much.
Because you know how much pain the corpse will live
If it ever once comes out again, and worse, you know despair,
The consuming fire that will destroy you innermost light if you breathe.

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