Yet again that itching question remains
How better to prune myself?
To pile clippings high and hope that i'm still fine
To break free, from the mould they cast for me
Each new growth overan*lyzed, a vicious cycle
Lend me your hopes, your dreams and fears
I'll cling to the hope that you'll still occasionally reappear
Before it's all gone with a heavy cloud of smoke
Yet again that itching question remains
How better to prune myself?
To pile clippings high and hope that i'm still fine
To break free form the mould they cast for me