[Verse 1] Too close to the canvas, all you see is the paint, the smear of every failure, the colors of the ache; you call it all a waste 'cause you can't step away, can't read your own story with your face pressed to the page. But every road to nowhere, it was drawing you the map, every door that slammed shut taught your hand to build the latch; you were never falling back — you were gathering the parts, you just couldn't see the shape of it, nose against the dark. [Pre-Chorus] So step back to the edge, let the whole thing show — the picture you were painting that you were too close to know. [Chorus] You can't see the whole of it standing in the frame, back up to the edge and the wreckage rearranges — every scar was a blueprint, every loss kept the flame, nothing was wasted, no — nothing, nothing was wasted. The fire wasn't ending you, the fire was the making, the dark wasn't a grave, it was ground that you were breaking; say it 'til you believe it, 'til the ache turns to praising — nothing was wasted, no — nothing, nothing was wasted. [Verse 2] The thing that broke your heart is the thing that built your spine, the weight you couldn't carry was the shape of the design; they laughed at what you were, called your dreaming a crime — but the flaw they kept pointing at was the gift the whole time. And the fire you named your punishment was patient, it was kind, pressing something permanent that only pressure finds; you don't forge a blade in comfort, you don't sharpen in the shine — you become the very heat you'd been praying to survive. [Chorus] You can't see the whole of it standing in the frame, back up to the edge and the wreckage rearranges — every scar was a blueprint, every loss kept the flame, nothing was wasted, no — nothing, nothing was wasted. The fire wasn't ending you, the fire was the making, the dark wasn't a grave, it was ground that you were breaking; say it 'til you believe it, 'til the ache turns to praising — nothing was wasted, no — nothing, nothing was wasted. [Bridge] And the dream you laid to rest — it ain't dead, it was early, it circles back around when your hands are finally worthy; you weren't cursed by the miss, you were struck by the same lightning, and this time it's dry ground that you're standing on — so it's striking. Everything that took from you, you kept the good pieces, you burned the rest to ash and rebuilt it, and it's peaceful; you became the very thing you always needed and never had — now you hand it to the world. Go on. Give 'em the map. [Outro] So look back — look back — and you'll finally see how it laced: every dot in your hand was a dot in its place. You were never really lost, you were learning the way, and nothing — you hear me — nothing was wasted.
