I’d rather be angry than afraid, but it turns out I don’t have to choose.
I’m mad I’ve lost so much, but I’ve still got so much left to lose.
I’m pissed for every broken wrist, every arm twisted for profit or spite,
and for every false prophet, just begging them to throw the fight.
I kick the ground with my boot, like I’m stamping out the strife,
but I can’t get at the root. I’ve been livid all my life.
So on that imagined day when we’ve settled every score:
I won’t lie to you and say I won’t be angry anymore.
I’d rather be angry than afraid, but both at once? It’s nothing I can’t do.
My fury’s for what they’ve taken, but my fear’s for what they still plan to.
There’s things I’ll never have,
and there’s things I’m not allowed to keep, and dear,
there’s a reason to my rage, but there’s also a folly to my fear.
Like how I’m scared of living right, but I’m terrified of death,
to know that once my body goes, there won’t be anything left.
But I’m also scared of ghosts, and I’m still scared of the dark.
But I ain’t never been afraid of a fucking broken heart!
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