Front Row Seats

Two, three, four
I woke up in a terrible mood
Swing to the good despite how I should feel
Am I a buzzkill? Am I a Goodwill?
I could mean well, but couldn't these freaks tell?
Some people say I got my head in the clouds
But from up here I can see more of the ground
They see the ground, but space is so loud
I can cause drought, bring the rain down

I'm a singer, I'm an artist
I'm not genius, no, I'm not perfect
I'm the ringer, with a market
I'm not Jesus, no, I'm not perfect

I made noise in a strangers ear
Chased off the fear away with the question
Any suggestion was sent as a message
I learned a lesson, fix your perception
If I close this scope and aperture
Words and literature, figureheads and spur
Into my sign, scream, run, and hide
Indeed it's a lot, seek what you find

I'm a singer, I'm an artist
I'm not genius, no, I'm not perfect
I'm a singer and I'm an artist
I'm not Jesus, no, I'm not perfect

Tremors tremble tremolo, tearing into tempo
'Don't care if you do not know, pairing with the dead flow
Apparently death row has front seats
To what's underneath as these beasts defeat us
Fight these demons, tonight we're sleeping
Dreaming to keep those creepers weepin'
What is fear but a good idea?
What is here except what we fear?

I'm a singer, I'm an artist
I'm not genius, no, I'm not perfect
I'm a singer, I'm an artist
I'm not Jesus, no, I'm not perfect

I'm not perfect