The Wonder Years - Stained Gla** Ceilings lyrics

Like a burning monk, You’re my light flare out in the dark. You’re my constant call to arms. Took the blindfold off, They’d left chalk outlines where the future was. It’s a god damned war of attrition. It’s a d**h by a thousand cuts. And if these motherf**ers made it to Heaven, They’d burn the bridge when they got across. They’re getting their anchors. They’re gathering rope. You’re pushing to Heaven all alone. They’re grabbing your ankles. They won’t let you go. The ebb and the distant flow. They’re cutting your wings off. Built your ceilings out of stained gla**. You’re caught like gravel in my skinned knee. The wound will close eventually. You’ll stay as a reminder of How f**ed this world can be. Held your funeral on a Tuesday. Holy water’s November-cold. The kid that pulled the trigger Knew tomorrow couldn’t promise him hope. All these ba*tards are gathering rope. You’re pushing to heaven all alone. They’re grabbing your ankles. They won’t let you go. The ebb and the distant flow. They’re cutting your wings off. Built your ceilings out of stained gla**. They were cutting your wings off. I was staring at my idle hands. Maybe I could have done something. Maybe I could have made a difference. John Wayne with a God complex Tells me to buy a gun like shooting a teenage kid Is gonna solve any problems, Like it’s an arms race, Like d**h don’t mean nothing. To know the heavy price of living poor Walled in by red lines Backed into a corner. Not knowing, growing up, What it’s like to belong here In America. [Jason Aalon Butler:] If everyone’s built the same, Then how come building’s so f**ing hard for you? It’s something we’re all born into. Nothing’s left up to grey. It’s black or white and sometimes black and blue. It’s something we’re all born into. Whoa. Now I know what’s in a name; not just my father’s. Three-fifths a man makes half of me. Why should I bother? Merchants of misery stacking the deck. f** your John Waynes. f** your God complex. I’ve got everything in front of me, but can’t reach far enough To touch these fever dreams they call American. I am the ghetto’s chosen one. The privileged ba*tard son. They’re getting their anchors. They’re gathering rope. You’re pushing to Heaven all alone. They’re getting their anchors. They’re gathering rope. You’re pushing to Heaven all alone.