Here's an excerpt from Jose Granados' article from Communio entitled, "Risen Time: Easter as the Source of History":
Forgiveness is an example of this possibility to extend the significance of an event retroactively. Let us note that forgiveness cannot be the mere expunging of the traces of an evil committed. Since a person's past belongs to his identity, sheer forgetfulness would destroy both the evil and the person who committed it. What is required of forgiveness is that it reshape the past, transforming it in goodness and incorporating it into a different narrative of the person's life. To forgive is to untie the bonds of the past and to liberate the person toward a new future. In order for this operation to be possible one must assume the existence of a past that is more original than the past of the evil committed, a source that the evil act was unable to touch and from which regeneration is possible. We are able to forgive a friend because we remember an initial goodness that opened up in our relationship with him, and we judge that this goodness does much deeper than the offense he has committed against us. The difficulty of forgiveness grows with the depth of the offense and it decreases with the solidity of the perception of this original goodness. This goodness, in its turn, is deep enough only because it is tied to the transcendent origin of the other person's foundation in God. Memory, then, is connected to our coming from God, to our being his children. This link of memory with filiation is at the roots of the possibility of our forgiving.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons IV: Summer
Summer
Summer is the season of deep contentedness and confidence. The greenest season, where grace, not as flashy as spring, is a deep constant. Like trees whose brilliant spring colors have faded, so too does the immediate explosion of new graces seem to fade from our lives. But what replaces the colorful display is something deeper, something rooted, something strong, something healthy.
Unlike the fragile glory of springtime colors, the simple greenness of summer reveals the strength and confidence of a life deeply connected to its source of being. Like a tall tree, draped in a garment of rich green leaves, whose roots are continually and confidently fed by the underground waters, so too do our souls drink confidently from the springs of peace and truth, nourishing us and establishing us in grace.
Summer is a simple season-- the flashes of the sudden glories of spring and fall are not present. But the simplicity of summer is a simplicity of the deepest intimacy. We know and are known. We are fed by truth, comforted by peace, rooted in grace, corrected in love, and loved with strength.
Summer is the season of deep contentedness and confidence. The greenest season, where grace, not as flashy as spring, is a deep constant. Like trees whose brilliant spring colors have faded, so too does the immediate explosion of new graces seem to fade from our lives. But what replaces the colorful display is something deeper, something rooted, something strong, something healthy.
Unlike the fragile glory of springtime colors, the simple greenness of summer reveals the strength and confidence of a life deeply connected to its source of being. Like a tall tree, draped in a garment of rich green leaves, whose roots are continually and confidently fed by the underground waters, so too do our souls drink confidently from the springs of peace and truth, nourishing us and establishing us in grace.
Summer is a simple season-- the flashes of the sudden glories of spring and fall are not present. But the simplicity of summer is a simplicity of the deepest intimacy. We know and are known. We are fed by truth, comforted by peace, rooted in grace, corrected in love, and loved with strength.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons III: Spring
Spring
Spring is the season of exuberant celebration of new life and new hope. As winter loses its icy grip on the land and on our hearts, our naked selves are robed again in the finest of all vestments, weaved by the pierced hands that know the deepest pain of winter and the highest joy of spring. In spring we, like the land about us, receive a foretaste of Resurrection. Spring is the Eastertide of our souls as we burst forth from the crucifixion and the tomb of winter, stirred by the holy wind from heaven to new life.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
In spring, the heavens are marvelously, gloriously, extravagantly open. Fresh rains water our souls, both washing away the barrenness of winter and bringing forward fresh fruit out of the moist soil of ourselves. Golden sunshine follows refreshing rain, warming our hearts with the intimate, tangible presence of the Holy One himself cradling us against his motherly bosom.
Spring is the season of an explosion of fruitfulness, of new life. In spring, our hope for redemption begins, only begins, to be realized in an extravagant way with an explosion of triumphs, of new growths, of new beginnings. Spring is the season given to celebration of the eruption of new joy, new hope and new and fragile glory.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons II: Winter
Winter
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Winter is the season of barrenness. We stand, like the denuded branches of the trees, stripped of our coverings and exposed to the harsh winds of frigid and aridness northernness. Barren, we become strangers even to ourselves. Our imperfections, now exposed and visible to the world, seem to become the whole of our identity. Lost in a world of monochromatic silence, like the silence of a snowy day abandoned by all of humanity, we perceive that we stand alone in the elements that batter us-- the snow, the ice, the howling wind.
No voice speaks from on-high in winter. The heavens seem shut except for the falling snow and the icy gusts of wind. And so we retreat deep inside ourselves, like the trees whose bruised and battered trunks still harbor green life within them. We retreat into ourselves, retreating in hope and not in despair, retreating in order to fortify ourselves against the elements that lash about us in our lonely, empty solitude. We fortify ourselves to wait. To wait, even in seeming abandonment, to wait in hope for the redemption of our bodies. This is the true grace of winter: like trees long exposed to the harsh winter winds, we become strong and sturdy in the hope of spring.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Spirituality of the Seasons 1: Fall
If there is a geography to redemption (mountains and valleys, rivers and deserts) then certainly there is a spirituality to the seasons of the year. The rhythms of the year: fading, death, new life and thriving life are all rhythms that we experience in our living out of relation with the Father through Jesus Christ in the Spirit. As you read these brief meditations on the seasons, I pray that you identify with one of them and can prayerfully discover the grace of God present with you. May you be filled with hope in the goodness, the grace and the provision of God in every season.
***
Fall
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
***
Fall is a season of contrasts: it is a journey from the sudden beauty of the rich tapestry of colors in October to the slow decay of leaves and the melancholy charcoal sky of November:
As trees burst into a symphony of flaming colors, an image of the transcendently divine one present with us in the midst of arboreal beauty, so too do our hearts flame with a seasoned and tempered exaltation, a rally of worship before the slow retreat back into ourselves for winter.
As leaves fall and the sky grows dark with the onset of the chill air, so too do our hearts settle into a quiet melancholy of the disrobing process: as the trees are disrobed of their flaming leaves, so are our hearts, spirits and personalities disrobed of their own coverings. In late fall, we become vulnerable as our coverings, our defenses, and even our glories slowly slide away from us, exposing us to that first icy breath of winter.
In both of these moments, the sudden glory and the slow disrobing, we long for something nameless, something mysterious and transcendent. We long for home-- the fire on the hearth, the aromas of the kitchen, the comfort of warm slippers. We long for the safe and secure coverings of our leaves. Yet we realize that “home” has itself become something transcendent, something put off. And we desire that coming home with a hunger that carries us through the long nights of cold winter.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I tried to hold you but you'd rather hold your grudge
Some days open on hope; other days open on tragedy and sorrow. I wish this brokenness would go away; that somehow the story of Ezekiel's valley of dry bones would become my story. My world is a lie that's come true. Because of that, hard choices are ever before me: fight or surrender, persevere or release, argue or be silent. There are no easy answers in a world that is a lie.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Yankee Tree
Yankee Tree
My body is built like an old Yankee tree--
so year after year I'll continue to be--
tall and thin and oh so protracted
with a mind so fine and ever so abstracted
from the sense called common to all of the masses;
I train with Montaigne and push up my glasses.
Like a tower in Babel I've mastered the art
of building toward heaven completely apart
from wisdom, from knowledge, from hu-mil-ity
so try as I might I'll continue to be
an old tree, a grey tree that's bent with self-pity
needing to fall to make way for the City
My body is built like an old Yankee tree--
so year after year I'll continue to be--
tall and thin and oh so protracted
with a mind so fine and ever so abstracted
from the sense called common to all of the masses;
I train with Montaigne and push up my glasses.
Like a tower in Babel I've mastered the art
of building toward heaven completely apart
from wisdom, from knowledge, from hu-mil-ity
so try as I might I'll continue to be
an old tree, a grey tree that's bent with self-pity
needing to fall to make way for the City
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A theology blog? Say what?
I know, I know. I don't post nearly enough on this blog to warrant starting another one. Skepticism noted.
But I did start another blog. This one is more explicitly academic and theological. Together, these two blogs represent two sides of my personal theological project: the academic and spiritual interpretation of my encounter with divine revelation. As I've come to see it, my academic work, just as much as my poetry, photos and stream-of-consciousness blogging, is a hermeneutic of God's action in my life and in the world that I observe. What does that mean? Well... I guess you'll have to go here to find out. :]
But I did start another blog. This one is more explicitly academic and theological. Together, these two blogs represent two sides of my personal theological project: the academic and spiritual interpretation of my encounter with divine revelation. As I've come to see it, my academic work, just as much as my poetry, photos and stream-of-consciousness blogging, is a hermeneutic of God's action in my life and in the world that I observe. What does that mean? Well... I guess you'll have to go here to find out. :]
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Cry, Night
Cry, Night!
You damned souls forever unmoving in your
un-breath-ed stasis
Mind, will, imagination and love inward-turned
Frozen now in your eternal genuflection before
the all-devouring I.
No Evenstar can illumine here
Cry, Dawn!
You happy saints forever poured out in your
Spirit-ed ekstasis
Soul, blood, imagination and love inward turned
Outward now in your perpetual kenosis before
the all-indwelling Thou
Dayspring breaks upon this eager morn.
You damned souls forever unmoving in your
un-breath-ed stasis
Mind, will, imagination and love inward-turned
Frozen now in your eternal genuflection before
the all-devouring I.
No Evenstar can illumine here
Cry, Dawn!
You happy saints forever poured out in your
Spirit-ed ekstasis
Soul, blood, imagination and love inward turned
Outward now in your perpetual kenosis before
the all-indwelling Thou
Dayspring breaks upon this eager morn.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The quiet in the loud
Today was an ordinary day in mid-June in central Texas: sunny and hot and still. It was also my day to mow the rather large lawn at my church. Dayspring Baptist Church is housed on a beautifully rolling piece of property. It isn't far from a main highway and yet somehow, whether graced with a blessing of stillness and serenity or shielded by the tall Texan trees that separate its grounds from the busyness of the highway, this landscape is always quiet.The stillness and the quiet of Dayspring's property are not merely physical. There is an ethereal stillness and an otherworldly tranquility that is infused within the physicality of this place. An ancient, or better yet, a timeless sanctity abounds here, as if the hills and the trees, the buildings made of stone and the iron bells, the roadrunners and the wild turkeys, the grasses and the flowers all exist in perpetual genuflection before an eternal Presence that knows them and calls them each by name.
In this place, one knows what it is to pray unceasingly; the Presence of the divine Spirit that lays thick in this "thin place"-- this place where the curtain of hiddenness that conceals the superabundance of Beauty that forms all reality is pulled back-- compels prayer. In this place, prayer becomes as natural as inhalation; prayer becomes the simple language of one's breath.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Newsflash
I love books.
I love books in different languages that I can only barely understand.
I love books that reference other books that I have on my shelf.
I love books that enrapture me and challenge me and wreck me and rebuild me.
Cicero once said something along the lines of this: A library is the soul of a home.
If that is true, then my home, regardless of where I wander, shall always be ensouled. Praise be to God.
I love books in different languages that I can only barely understand.
I love books that reference other books that I have on my shelf.
I love books that enrapture me and challenge me and wreck me and rebuild me.
Cicero once said something along the lines of this: A library is the soul of a home.
If that is true, then my home, regardless of where I wander, shall always be ensouled. Praise be to God.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Artificiality of Appearance
Just today my house went on the market. Over the last few months, my wife has been diligently devoting herself to "minimizing" the house in preparation for showing it. "Minimizing" is the term realtors use as shorthand for "removing all things that make the house personal"-- pictures on the fridge, decorations, items of personal yet questionable taste. The goal in minimizing is to make your home as neutral as possible-- white towels, minimal decorations, no personalized touches like photographs, religious decorations, etc. Essentially, you are stripping your house of anything that makes it a home.
What you are aiming for in minimizing the house is creating an artificial appearance of a home without the actual content of the home. All the appearances of a home are there: couches, beds, tables, bookshelves. But the content of "home" is purposely hidden away; all of the very things that potential buyers long to create for themselves within those walls are deemed inappropriate to have out when showing the house.
This makes no sense to me. When looking at houses, the last thing I want to see is a pristine, untouched, artificial environment. When we were the potential buyers of this house, I loved that the closets were stuffed with clothes and old VHS tapes. I loved that the kids' rooms were covered with posters and toys. Seeing how someone else made a home within these walls made me want to make a home here as well. The houses I liked the least were the ones that were completely empty. Those were just... houses. I didn't want a house, I wanted a home.
But this minimizing mentality seems to be the way our culture functions. We covet appearances but hate to deal with the sloppy realities of actual content. We want our houses to look like homes but without the inconveniences of clutter and disarray. We want our relationships to look healthy but without the inconveniences of the hard and painful labor that makes relationships thrive. We want our churches to look hip and relevant without the inconveniences of truly listening and thereby knowing the cries of people's hearts.
This is one of the many things I appreciated about Hans Urs von Balthasar. The whole of his theology (primarily but not limited to his theological aesthetics) insists on the absolute inseparability of form and content. He argues that, in the person of Jesus Christ, the appearance of Christ in the world cannot be separated out from the content-- the identity-- of who Christ is as God Incarnate. If Christ is, as Balthasar elsewhere argues (namely in his Theology of History), the norm of history (and, I would content, of reality itself) then Christians have a responsibility to counter the world's obsession with mere appearance. Christians who have any sacramental understanding know that appearance is epiphanic-- appearances, forms, are the vehicles for the revelation and the unveiling of deeper realities. So, even in something as simple and prosaic as a house, the appearance of "home" can and should be something that opens up as an epiphanic revelation of a specific content: the reality of "home", not just within the four walls of a domicile, but within the divine bosom from which the heavens and the earth are spun. As Sheldon Vanauken puts it so well, "Heaven must be a coming home". By stripping appearance of its content, we are stripping form of its epiphanic vocation and missing an opportunity to reveal, sacramentally, something of divine reality.
... and that is why I'm not picking up my socks off of the floor before realtors bring people by!
:)
What you are aiming for in minimizing the house is creating an artificial appearance of a home without the actual content of the home. All the appearances of a home are there: couches, beds, tables, bookshelves. But the content of "home" is purposely hidden away; all of the very things that potential buyers long to create for themselves within those walls are deemed inappropriate to have out when showing the house.
This makes no sense to me. When looking at houses, the last thing I want to see is a pristine, untouched, artificial environment. When we were the potential buyers of this house, I loved that the closets were stuffed with clothes and old VHS tapes. I loved that the kids' rooms were covered with posters and toys. Seeing how someone else made a home within these walls made me want to make a home here as well. The houses I liked the least were the ones that were completely empty. Those were just... houses. I didn't want a house, I wanted a home.
But this minimizing mentality seems to be the way our culture functions. We covet appearances but hate to deal with the sloppy realities of actual content. We want our houses to look like homes but without the inconveniences of clutter and disarray. We want our relationships to look healthy but without the inconveniences of the hard and painful labor that makes relationships thrive. We want our churches to look hip and relevant without the inconveniences of truly listening and thereby knowing the cries of people's hearts.
This is one of the many things I appreciated about Hans Urs von Balthasar. The whole of his theology (primarily but not limited to his theological aesthetics) insists on the absolute inseparability of form and content. He argues that, in the person of Jesus Christ, the appearance of Christ in the world cannot be separated out from the content-- the identity-- of who Christ is as God Incarnate. If Christ is, as Balthasar elsewhere argues (namely in his Theology of History), the norm of history (and, I would content, of reality itself) then Christians have a responsibility to counter the world's obsession with mere appearance. Christians who have any sacramental understanding know that appearance is epiphanic-- appearances, forms, are the vehicles for the revelation and the unveiling of deeper realities. So, even in something as simple and prosaic as a house, the appearance of "home" can and should be something that opens up as an epiphanic revelation of a specific content: the reality of "home", not just within the four walls of a domicile, but within the divine bosom from which the heavens and the earth are spun. As Sheldon Vanauken puts it so well, "Heaven must be a coming home". By stripping appearance of its content, we are stripping form of its epiphanic vocation and missing an opportunity to reveal, sacramentally, something of divine reality.
... and that is why I'm not picking up my socks off of the floor before realtors bring people by!
:)
One
Is it getting better?
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame
You say
One love
One life
When it's one need
In the night
One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it
Did I disappoint you?
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's
Too late
Tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One
Have you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus?
To the lepers in your head
Did I ask too much?
More than a lot.
You gave me nothing,
Now it's all I got
We're one
But we're not the same
Well we
Hurt each other
Then we do it again
You say
Love is a temple
Love a higher law
Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One
-- U2, "One"
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame
You say
One love
One life
When it's one need
In the night
One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it
Did I disappoint you?
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it's
Too late
Tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One
Have you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus?
To the lepers in your head
Did I ask too much?
More than a lot.
You gave me nothing,
Now it's all I got
We're one
But we're not the same
Well we
Hurt each other
Then we do it again
You say
Love is a temple
Love a higher law
Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other
One
-- U2, "One"
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
A quote from JF
There seems to be a running theme in these last bunch of entries (inconsistent as they may be). They all, in one way or another, reference Jon Foreman. Sorry, Jon, I'm really not a stalker-- haha. His words, though, have a way of resonating deep in my soul and I've really appreciated reading his lyrics, his tweets, and his op-ed pieces. It is from one of these op-ed (see the link at the bottom of the page) that I draw the following quote (portions in bold are those that deeply resonate with me):
"The artist is a bridge between despair and hope. The artist, more than anyone else is responsible for the re-creation, re-definition and re-thinking the world around us. Every poem, every song, every painting has tremendous possibility. Each of these creations could be a letter of resignation to The World That Is or a window into The World That Is Not. Each poem/painting/song could be a vehicle to a new reality, one in which the artist plays a part no matter how small. The artist paints a world into existence. The canvas, the paint, the brush--these known quantities of existence and reality are tools for stepping into the unknown.
The notes of the song are a bridge from what is to what is not yet."
There are so many things in this quote that I wish I had the energy to respond to. All I can manage to say right now is that my heart longs for this in a way that defies my not inconsiderable ability to articulate it (*pat pat* good ego, gooood ego!). If there is one thing that I am continuously frustrated by during my graduate school experience, it is the lack of time to be truly creative. Deep down, I recognize myself as an artist more than anything else. But the creative side in me has been so neglected over these last few years that I feel like the very core of me is completely neglected and so I've been coasting on fumes the last few years instead of a full tank.
Creative Matt, I miss you.
"The artist is a bridge between despair and hope. The artist, more than anyone else is responsible for the re-creation, re-definition and re-thinking the world around us. Every poem, every song, every painting has tremendous possibility. Each of these creations could be a letter of resignation to The World That Is or a window into The World That Is Not. Each poem/painting/song could be a vehicle to a new reality, one in which the artist plays a part no matter how small. The artist paints a world into existence. The canvas, the paint, the brush--these known quantities of existence and reality are tools for stepping into the unknown.
The notes of the song are a bridge from what is to what is not yet."
There are so many things in this quote that I wish I had the energy to respond to. All I can manage to say right now is that my heart longs for this in a way that defies my not inconsiderable ability to articulate it (*pat pat* good ego, gooood ego!). If there is one thing that I am continuously frustrated by during my graduate school experience, it is the lack of time to be truly creative. Deep down, I recognize myself as an artist more than anything else. But the creative side in me has been so neglected over these last few years that I feel like the very core of me is completely neglected and so I've been coasting on fumes the last few years instead of a full tank.
Creative Matt, I miss you.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Hear my prayer
This is a song by my favorite songwriter, Jon Foreman, in his band Fiction Family. These lyrics are the lyrics that have been bleeding out of my heart for as long as I can remember.
Mostly
This is darkest day I've seen
I can't find an opening
I've never felt this rage in me
I've never known this anger
I'm feeling like a curse
I feel like I'm getting worse
I'm bored with war and songs
I've been bitter far too long
Come on prove me long
And tell me I'm no longer
And tell me I'm not crazy
Well maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
They're up to something in my head
I can hear them taunting me
Thanks for nothing imagined friends
I can hear you laughing
I feel like a hearse
Like I'm carrying dead hurts
I'm tired of being right
I'm retiring from that fight
Hey come on prove me wrong
And tell my I'm no longer
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
I'm feeling like a bomb
Like I'm screwing up my song
It's like I don't belong
No point in going on
Hey come on prove me wrong
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
Mostly
This is darkest day I've seen
I can't find an opening
I've never felt this rage in me
I've never known this anger
I'm feeling like a curse
I feel like I'm getting worse
I'm bored with war and songs
I've been bitter far too long
Come on prove me long
And tell me I'm no longer
And tell me I'm not crazy
Well maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
They're up to something in my head
I can hear them taunting me
Thanks for nothing imagined friends
I can hear you laughing
I feel like a hearse
Like I'm carrying dead hurts
I'm tired of being right
I'm retiring from that fight
Hey come on prove me wrong
And tell my I'm no longer
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
I'm feeling like a bomb
Like I'm screwing up my song
It's like I don't belong
No point in going on
Hey come on prove me wrong
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
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