I get no respect behind my back I think it's due time to grow up Confess the courage that I lack in my choices, my weak will My tendency to tear through nothing I made my bed and I will die in it We all grow old if given the chance Pray with tired voices and folded hands Father Perceptions add up and maul on top of each other Like blankets upon weaving others have stitched together I am biased and bullied by barely anything Yet I let it, let it get the best of me My hands were once lifted high Now they lay low like my spirit They dangle at my side My hands were once lifted high And I will lift them again