They say the world goes round and round.
How is it then that I am like a statue?

Standing still with a mighty pound.
Scared to break through the clay, to better my mold.
All I hear is the sound
Of the passers by saying “Let go of the hold,
Your fear of being great has on your soul!”
They yell to me, “Though the fear may be bold,
It is your’s to sculpt, to control.”

They say the world goes round and round.
Why then do I let myself to be like a statue?