So many questions
The answers are lies
So many things to keep inside

These are my thoughts that need real meaning
Though I’ve been so blind in time I will find
But what are my chances with you
Will I ever be able to
Answer your questions
The very same questions I ask of myself
So many questions that turn to conclusions
So many things to figure out
These are my fears, the effects of your inquiries
These are the things you do to me
But is this me? Why am I here?
What am I doing?
Where am I going?
What do you want from me?
What do I have to do?
What am I to you?
Why do I complain?
Why do I seem to lose control over these questions?
These un-ending questions that you never cease to ask of me…
You can never change me.
But this is me.
Why am I here?
What am I doing?
Where am I going?
What do you want from me?
What do I have to do?
What am I to you?