Chonny Jash - Compelled by Hindsight

You know, I only finished this one up like last week and even I don't know what the hell I was thinking as I was making it...
...bit funky though, no?

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LYRICS:

...
...yeah, fuck it.

All your wiles and painted plaster had finally fell from form.
The time you whiled was bathed in laughter. The sunlight, bright and warm.
And though you prayed the dark move faster, the day lasts just as long.
The yarn once lit has closed its chapter and now, you sing night's song.
The pain and regret and slow disdain. Every thought that you cannot dismiss.
Each time you escape one banal babushka cage, you see the vessel in which it sits.

Why do you think you deserve this? When did your ego grow?
The grin you wear seems awful churlish. Your outfits, just as so.
Self-puppeted marionette plays poet, director and whole damn cast,
but underneath that face, there lay it: a message from the past.
The future's a coward. The present, mocking,
so bust out those rotten rose-tinters.
What's happened has flowered and I can hear it knocking,
so get ready the salt and the tincture.

The rope's not voluntary, nor one that you can show.
A noose that's tied so scarcely merely acts to keep you on your toes.

Everything you've been's grown toxic, disguised by tinted dye.
A thin veneer stained faux-quixotic, in shades of blatant lie.
Pretend and fake. Perfect your novel and sell it out for free.
The soapbox in the sad man's hovel refuses to charge a fee.
The Pan Man. The Wicked. The Stranded Cynic.
The Fool in The Artist's clothing.
The Emperor's New Album is free from common critics
and yet still, it lies victim to loathing.

You said that you're tired of being no one;
you're sick of being the mean,
but now that the spotlight's on your emotions,
you're scared of being seen.
They'll pick apart your sacred wisdom, but you're no fucking deity.
You're just a simple, lowly, degradated human being.
Compare who you are to what you see.
Contort the prose into something absurd.
If no one's around when you cut that tree
then the shock wave cannot be heard.

The rope's not voluntary, nor one that you can show.
A noose that's tied so scarcely merely acts to keep you on your toes.

But there's still time to clear your mind,
so don't submit and don't deny.
You've carved a chance where most have died,
so clear the path and walk in strides.
The yarn you spin's turned awfully thin,
so drop the string, you've solved your pastime.
What's the past when we're living in the meantime?

If decent thrives and guilty hides
then steel your nerve and choose your side.
You might be wrong. You might be right,
but how will you know if you don't try?
The sleepless nights your fear incites
aren't half as bad as what the hush will bring.
Can you take another rush of this feeling?