| If cunning was our birthright
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| Then falsity became our sport
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| Beings like trellises of roses
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| Vines, whose beauty so splendidly hid
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| The vicious biting of recompense
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| Ours alone to bare and grit
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| Self-designed deceptions
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| Jutting out of our skin
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| Warning all passers-by
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| «Careful, I’m beautiful, but you wouldn’t like what’s within!
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| For while reveling in my form, you’ll only bleed from my sins!»
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| Perhaps the change began in the springs of our infancy
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| Watered with poison, stunting in its toxicity
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| Or cutback too much in our pruning
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| Trimmed with shaking hands, selfish neuroses
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| Left jagged with self-loathing, insecurities
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| But we don’t have to let it dictate…
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| Shake the death from your bones
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| Shake the death from your bones
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| Shake the death from your bones
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| Shake free of the yoke, our mental oppressions
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| No longer frozen, the key in our possession
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| Swing open your cell, break off that rearview
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| Even as the tree grows out of the heart of stone
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| Our past will not dictate how tall we will grow
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| Will dwelling in the negatives
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| Ever bring about the light?
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| Will living in the darkness
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| Ever expose what’s right? |