To feed my selfish talent that storms like wildfire
Through my seconds and my minutes and my hours and my days
Until my time is represented through my writings on a page
I would rather spend my time being locked up in a cage
Than being told my singing is forbidden on my own stage

Like the canary to the grizzled hand that feeds it:
I will sing, to the gods above and preach to those below them
Because my expressions of greater message soar higher than the depressions
Provided by the upper petty population meant to penetrate
My feeling of purpose and my feeling of belonging
My paper flesh, my scribbled veins, my inky blood
My creations, my time, my prophecy
I'll rip it from the invisible hands of structure
And craft into something the entire world cannot puncture

Because this is my time, and this my music
This is my song, and this is my moment
This is all I ever wanted, and it's all I want to get
I won't sing for my bills but I'll sing past my death
I won't sing for the thrills but I'll sing my last breath
Because the last word I utter will be one from myself
And when I have crumbled like a sand castle reaching tide
Dust unto dust, and my mind all but quiet
You can plant me in the ground with a seed from a tree
And my endless temple of stone will say that, well, I sang for me