I got a glitch in the matrix,
Want to be known but fear fame,
Want to take steps into the future,
Crossing bridges bearing flame,
But I’ll be backstepping out of the forest
thinking it’ll all turn out the same,
A coward of a hero, no glory to the name,

I want to take a journey out the homestead
Like Frodo from the shire,
Make First steps out of the Jupiter
Walk into the shadows from the fire
But I crawl back under blankets like I’m a child again,
seeing snow drifts in the wardrobe, And I'm not looking in,

I took a step from the Ordinary,
Answered a call,
But as i climb ever higher,
It’s just further to fall,
The greats have walked this path,
And found their way to stand tall,
But as I step beyond the threshold,
I can’t best them all,
And i know that what I've faced is only the trial,
The truest test is still yet to come,
I’ve only tasted a sip of what's in the vial
And I don't know if this is torture or fun


I can’t play pacifist when it comes to my art,
That’s why I keep being raring to go, but failing to start,
No matter if I’m in the zone, or coming apart,
I got to keep fighting on through if I want to depart,

in the journey, I'm two faced truth,
trying to be the hero of my story, I'm the villain of my youth,
Trying to play at ego, wear my label with pride,
I created the scenario in which my younger self would run and hide,
Cause it’s uncomfortable out here in this dingy spotlight,
And the weatherman said it would be better to stay inside,
But I'm caught in the tornado and it’s too late for fright,
I’m far from Kansas, and I've got to be ready to fly,

Can you be the rival of your own mind?
Lost in the obstacles you put in your own way,
Trapped in cages of thoughts destructive and unkind,
And all you want is to crawl out and face the day,
But the villain in your way wears your own face,
And you left all the weapons of your youth inside
All the vigor and resolve left without a trace,
In the cage made of the walls you raised in your mind,

Wrote myself as damaged again,
I'm Always playing the monk with dissipating Zen,
Some disturbed Saint, who lost themselves to sin,
But in truth it’s Simmons
who killed the Poet with the Pen,
And I'm losing my yang to the yin,
Philosophizing life while ranting to my kin,
Mocking purpose in the echoes of prophesizing men,
And yet I'm seeing myself lusting for the end,