Lost souls get sucked into some self-convincing conformity,
where they can say only what's sanctioned by their scene,
until their outline is blurred within the vast enormity
of each vapid shell which has built this bland machine.
Do you know who you are?
Is your brain a work of art?
Is every stroke calculated
to play some bigger part?
My own lost soul blows about in the blundering breeze
and I can consciously call myself no better than the rest,
unsure of which situation or section I ought to appease
the only difference is, I am not content with my nest.
Do you know who you are?
Is your brain a work of art?
Is every stroke calculated
to play some bigger part?
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