I think Franklin Roosevelt was right,
I’ve nothing to fear but fear itself.
It’s a fever dream like fight,
but sometimes I misnomer myself.
All the history books told lies;
the great depression wasn’t great,
and even the general cries
when the snow is melting late.
When tomorrow is yesterday,
and the present is long since past,
what will future history books say?
Did we linger or let it last?
Isn’t it strange, how strangers seem
to read the radiance of our rose,
how the sticky acrylic stream
blurs when we’re standing too close?
Life’s too good to let it wither
by letting tears of tomorrow take today,
so let stolen sisters take hers with her,
and trust that timing will be okay.
I think Franklin Roosevelt was right,
I’m a prisoner of my own mind,
but courage isn’t the absence of fright,
and I underestimated my name signed.