My mind takes it reserved spot on the tip of a turning top
Am I the one causing it to spin?
To stop and think puts pressure on my assumptions
But maybe I should instead look within

Whats in the bag? Whats in the bag?
An army of misread metaphors
A 4th dimensional space, is mine to taste
But only I can open up that door

I grew strong legs to carry my bagagge
To leave it behind wasn't even a thought
I tried to outrun my problems, cupid and God
But its love itself that has me caught

I took my reserved spot in the chair of an open mind
I didn't want to look in the mirror because I was scared of what I'd see
A flawful analogy of pure sensuality
And it turns out that I actually love me.