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Am I the author of my own demise?
I hide what’s within, my mask is called pride
Do they see me or do they see my disguise?
It’s hard to find truth buried in the lies
Maybe they’d prefer what’s really inside
Am I the author of my own demise?
How many times have I wanted to cry?
Can nobody see the pain with which I reside?
Do they see me or do they see my disguise?
Maybe a message will fall from the sky
A sign from above, they must know I’ve tried
Am I the author of my own demise?
Why wasn’t I told there are more lows than highs?
Why didn’t they know that I needed a guide?
Do they see me or do they see my disguise?
Do I keep telling this story that nobody buys?
Do I dig a deeper hole? Do I run? Do I hide?
Am I the author of my own demise?
Do they see me or do they see my disguise?
. . .
