[RUBATO] [EXPRESSIVE RUBATO] [RETURN RUBATO] [VIRTUOSIC MUSICIANSHIP] [ALBUM VERSION] [ISOLATED INSTRUMENTS] [INDIVIDUAL SOUNDS] [RADIO-READY]

[Instrumental Introduction]

When you're young, sometimes you don't feel right in the head.
Instead, you conceal a knife under your bed.
Then the (Boom Boom) of thunder fills your mind with dread.
You're only ten years old, you should be playing instead.

Your mother sips from her wine, watching your father hit you from behind.
"Hey little baby, fight back," they both insist while fists are flyin'.
But resisting is worse than a punishment for doing no crime.
You just exist in these conditions and get forgotten in time.

You're late for school, stomach growlin' for some food, but then.
It's only bread and stale crackers for lunch again.
They say it's all in your head, try journaling instead?
But can you change your situation with just a stroke of a pen?

So you write it all down, but you're just frightened now.
The sound of footsteps might just mean your diary's been found.
Your father might see it and get some more fight in him now.
The sight of blood on your brow, would make your whole body frown.

[Instrumental Transition]

Now you're only sixteen, but your eyes look 25.
You've seen too much, you only want to survive.
You’ve learned to lie with a smile just to try and stay alive.
Your feelings are like a stranger that you barely recognize.

You drift through halls like a ghost in your own skin.
Teachers pass judgment, but they won't ask where you've been.
They don’t see the war zone hiding under your grin.
Or how you flinch at every noise that's louder than a pin.

The mirror mocks you, eyes black, spine slack.
You tape your smile on, but it always peels back.
Your friends fade away fast, they detach, you just laugh.
Each and every goodbye leaves a wound you can’t patch.

You're only sixteen, but you've lived a thousand deaths.
Suffocating on the silence between shallow breaths.
Hope is a myth, you're only chasing what's left.
A black shadow's looming presence of your final step.

[Instrumental Transition]

Now you're twenty, and there's numbness in your skin.
You fake-laugh at jokes while unraveling within.
Got a job, got a room, but you still feel thin.
Like your body’s just a coffin that you're sleepin' in.

You’ve buried your friends, not in dirt, but in distance.
All lost in pills, prison cells, or living assistance.
You toast with a blade, not champagne or persistence.
Every night’s just a test of your dwindling existence.

[Calm]
You stare at the ceiling, unread texts in a pile.
Your thoughts run feral in your mind now so vile.
You fake one more laugh, wear one more pretend smile.
Eternal blackness is the only companion that's worthwhile.

[Sad and Emotional]
They said you were only 20, they never thought you'd depart.
But the whole of your life crippled you from the start.
There were plenty of signs that you were falling apart.
Now your journey is over, the final beat of your heart.