Entrenched mediocrity.
Why do I stare at perfection?
If everything was left for dead
would I see my own reflection?
A million parts to all apart,
we build our own problems,
when we define what we design
in the fire of desire.
Some say we once had it all,
it wasn't enough,
now we're driven oh so mad, sad
strung on our own wire.
Some day we could have it all,
again,
Some day it'd never come together.
A million parts to fall apart,
they'll fall
all the same.
Fleeting
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