the people around me change so fast, no brakes on the downhill
there always seems to be a knife among the pens, which is mightier
4 new wheels, climbing the upward slope
there’s an opening in my side, it’s such a small leak
creative precipice, ruff seas
volin strings sing, feathers from angels cut like paper
there’s a growing anger, it’s underneath the sweetness
words are sampled and rearranged, thoughts not my own
what is real, what is not