[Stanza]
What will be?
No-- What is it?
New escape, new drip-drip-drip
Slipping; meditative trip
Terrestrial grip squeezing
Whatever's left is seeping
Out of cracks and crevices
Is that the truth I taste and smell?
A concoction of sorts
It's vomit, of course
Poisoning the flesh
The rest remains obscure
Such a puzzling thought
To think what was, wasn't reality at all
So what is? What is it? I ask again
A locked bedroom in a dark house?
Too bright, the outside
Family steps out
Out from behind a cracked window
Venting my perceived unenlightenment
Expressing my whatever
[Verse]
Expressing my whatever; my thoughts are never together
An unorganized uprising, scheduled under stormy weather
And yet, that's the jazz of it all
The bebop, fusion, free, swing, and rap of it all
Always happy to call your bluff. Your magic is flawed
Your illusion ain't confusing or distracting me at all
Even though it's obvious "all" and "all" don't go together
Repeating my scheme, while expressing my whatever