The Wonder Years - Stained Glass Ceilings (Official Music Video)

Stained Glass Ceilings (featuring Jason Aalon Butler of letlive.) is off The Wonder Years' new album 'No Closer To Heaven' -- out now!
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Directed by Jeremi Mattern | DangerFilms.com
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Lyrics:
Like a burning monk, you’re my light flare out in the dark. You’re my constant call to arms. Took the blindfold off, they’d left chalk outlines where the future was. It’s a god damned war of attrition. It’s death by a 1000 cuts. If these motherfuckers made it to heaven, they’d burn the bridge when they got across. They’re getting their anchors. They’re gathering rope. You’re pushing to heaven all alone. They’re grabbing your ankles. They won’t let you go. The ebb and the distant flow. They’re cutting your wings off. Built you ceilings out of stained glass. You’re caught like gravel in my skinned knee. The wound will close eventually. You’ll stay as a reminder of how fucked this world can be. Held your funeral on a Tuesday. The holy water’s November-cold. The kid that pulled the trigger knew tomorrow couldn’t promise him hope. These bastards are gathering rope. You’re marching to heaven all alone. They’re grabbing your ankles. They won’t let you go. The ebb and the distant flow. They’re cutting your wings off. Built you ceilings out of stained glass. They were cutting your wings off. I was staring at my idle hands. Maybe I could have done something. Maybe I could have made a difference. John Wayne with a God complex tells me to buy a gun like shooting a teenage kid is gonna solve any problems, like it’s an arms race, like death don’t mean nothing. To know the heavy price of living poor walled in by red lines backed into corner. Not knowing, growing up, what it's like to belong here in America. If everyone’s built the same, then how come building is so fucking hard for you? It’s something we’re all born into. Nothing’s left up to gray. It’s black or white and sometimes black and blue. It’s something we’re all born into. Now I know what’s in a name; not just my father’s. Three fifths a man makes half of me. Why should I bother? Merchants of misery stacking the deck. Fuck your John Waynes. Fuck your god complex. I’ve got everything in front of me but can’t reach far enough to touch those fever dreams they call American. I am the ghetto’s chosen one, the privileged bastard son.
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