The truth is in words, I'm gonna make it work. The muse is disguised between roses and lives that I see everyday. Judge me for bringing the stinging hand that's clinging to a far off day.

Careful how she walks, or firm in her strides. Naive and out of touch, or hardened with time. Blazing in space that won't recognize the flames in her eyes. Crafted for more than a suitable place. Is this what I see, or could this be me?

Tied to the frame of each ending the same. Within each paradise is the root of surprise that complications and confrontations exist, allowing real frustrations. Oh. Listen for the silences cursing society's expectations.

Careful how she walks, or firm in her strides. Naive and out of touch, or hardened with time. Blazing in space that won't recognize the flames in her eyes. Crafted for more than a suitable place. Is this what I see, or could this be me?

Bring me a pen, then let's begin, draw the world as we see living, all the people out there giving inspiration for the telling. I'll build them big and hope you see the nuances of each personality. Oh, how structures here effectively drown out a crying me.

Careful how she walks, or firm in her strides. Naive and out of touch, or hardened with time. Blazing in space that won't recognize the flames in her eyes. Crafted for more than a suitable place. Is this what I see, or could this be me? Oh yeah. This be me? Oooo.

Is this what I see, or could this be me?