It seems lifes a fickle thing,
one that shifts and craves for nothing,
but to tear me apart piece by piece,
Can't you, Can't you hear them howling?
Sometimes when you fall you take
the risk that it won't be a mistake
even if your lives at stake.
Can't You hear them howling?
Life's a, Life's a fickle thing..
Sometimes wishes give us hope,
but sometimes wishes are but a joke
until they wrap you until you choke,
Howling, Howling, Life's a fickle thing.
Can you catch it, catch it? As it flickers from
your grasp?
Is it fate that blows the wind,
or is it my own control? Do you know?
Fickle, Fickle thing, Howling..
The light's to bright, the good has to many lies,
the shadows the only place to hide,
come,
come inside.

I wonder what babies see, when they open there eyes for the first peek,
I wander down the rivers and streams, trying to catch the piece of me, that's still floating on endlessly,
I wonder if I flew, how far would it be before I felt something new, something in my heart, that may be a start,
I wander to the valleys, full of blooming Bittersweet, but all I seek, at the end, is Truth, clear and without another lie to turn my head,
I wonder if I chase after you, how far would I go, before you started to slow, or if we would just stay in that neverchanging cycle of running, for and forsaken,
I wander down the lost and found, maybe theres a way I can stand my ground, but it's all empty when I look around,
I wonder if randomly, the world will unfold around me, and pieces go together perfectly, without the error
that is Me.~

I had a tape recorder on my nightstand, once.
Through my ears, normally, my voice is always underlined with my thoughts. Thoughts that echo what I say, or maybe more spirals of curls underneath.
I recorded me talking about unfair, of nice, of crazy things, and played it back.
It sounded like a insignificant thing, trying to be loud, or a robin, trying to roar. Who was I kidding?
I left it there for awhile. Someone pressed the button, and I quickly turned it off.
I guess I'm to much of a chicken to say anything I really think. To afraid of the judges putting me in a jury.

I guess I'm just a wall with a face,
to every stranger I see as I go place to place,
to prove I won't fall is a constant race.

You know my name, not my story, who are you to
say I have no glory?  I'm not something you study in a laboratory,
I have pages to fame, my body just a territory.

I stroke, I stroke, my paintbrush starts to unfold,
what other don't know, colors born to be told.
Your just a bloke, a bloke, I shall be written in bold!

I'm a wall with a face, open, open my gate,
I'm not a gentle snowflake, your mistake, is the last string I shall take!
All smiles are fake, frowns lead to tears that cause lakes,
Look upon my Grace! Not my Face!

Up one hill, down another,
perfectly fine til my car makes a splutter.
Crip crack go, puff puff puff,
**** it, this road may have been to tough.
My legs ain't as good as they used to be,
so I guess I'll just have to postpon my trip
to the coun'try

Flat land, low land, what my br'ain fails to understand
is how i'll ever see this place ag'ain.

Up one hill, down another,
perfectly fine til my car makes a splutter.
Crip crack go, puff puff puff,
**** it, this road may have been to tough.
My legs ain't as good as they used to be,
so I guess I'll just have to postpon my trip
to the coun'try

Sea life, cut the rope with your new knife,
slice, slice, slice

Up one wave, down another,
perfectly fine until my boat starts to flutter
woosh woosh woosh, do boats have a caboose?
My swimmin aint good as it used to be,
guess I'll see you someday, please,
will you say hi to coun'try,
for me?

I heard, I heard
that there are five senses,
from thy sight to thy words,
a birth in the brain,
of a green blue 'n colored domain
But some see differently,
or when they [don't] hear,
"Come a-gain?"
it travels to the head
but what about when you go to bed?
What makes the dreams so fake?
So real?
Is it the fact that when we wake, we feel?
Or that in dreams, time stretches, in life it's steel.
I touch, I say it's ruff,
but to other it may be soft as rabbit fluff.
A illusion is not a illusion,
for then everything else is someone loosin
it aswell.
Some say there menally insane, but what makes them that
and us not?
What is us? What is them? Why does a needle decide what the thread is?
What if were all still in bed?
Never lift up thy heads?
Never went down in the first place?