You want to change the world, but the world is changing you.
And the scariest part is you think you’re the same—
That you’ll never change.
Just got famous so you could be listened to.
And the scariest part is maybe you’re right.
Maybe it’s not changing you.
Cuz you were corrupt to begin with.
Voice for the voiceless, but fans find you easy to sin with.
We are all insecure, broken people.
Cracked skull and soul, spilling blood.
And we try to make art to control it—
A collage made of carnage.
You say you aren’t faking.
But you try to look sexy.
And you tell me your lies.
Look me in the eyes and speak truth. . .
Do you love man more than God?
Do you crave their attention?
Do whatever’s not ‘wrong’?
Call it evangelism. Encouragement.
I don’t. It’s self-nourishment. Idolatry.
I just want to close my ears.
But the issue is it’s inside of me too.
It’s inside of me first.
Visions of lust—
I need you to praise me.
I can’t let go.
All I know is…
The question is can I believe
There was somebody perfect
And it’s not me?
There are hands holding
When I can’t see.
Can I really agree,
More than just intellectually,
That there was only one who could ever change the world?
Lord, you did it perfectly.
Can I use all my broken, twisted emotion—
Slow-motion to point to Him.
Can I give Him all the glory
While I’m still fighting to put away sin?
And for now, I’m partially twisted.
It’s nothing the famous untwist.
But we point each other to you, Lord—
And where we fail, because we fail, help us remember you again.
And follow no matter what—to death.
Let each and every one of us find you, because we’re seeking.
And if you could just shed a small flare of light on yourself through my art, somehow I think that would be enough.