That pedestel you've made is completely empty.
It has a name for me though, and one you've carved in proudly.
It's made from the same rock that's inside of me.
The rock that's marked me the foundation of this family.

But I'm not mom or dad. I'm just sister. I'm just daughter.
I'm not climbing the top on that unstable ladder.

It's made if the same wood that crumbles around us constantly.
It's the same material used in the roof you see.
And watch as it crumbles over our heads, crushing me.
And the rest of you are left wondering.

Where's are rock? Under the rubble. Under the garbage.
Under the old roof we tarnished.

The trash is now smothering me.
As I gasp for breath, I am also dying.
And as they see what's become of their dependancy.
My death becomes their inconvenience.