Time runs a frantic race.
Chopping me up from place to place.
A recipe for chaotic stew...
A bit of him
A touch of you.
Make room for this...and making do.
And all the time, I'm thinking..."who?"

A different path runs through my mind.
A creative journey... mine to find.
But with each hopeful step
I'm pulled toward the ground
By tangles of brambles holding me down.
Other peoples' schemes, it seems, can rob me of my dreams.
Time does fly.
And all the time, I'm thinking..."why?"

It's very hard to find yourself...
Underneath the pieces
Of everyone else.