So, picture this; I'm at the edge of a canyon,
A canyon I may have dug myself,
With a little help from my psyche,
The mind, the Soul, or the Spirit,
These words we make-believe to exist.
We write them, we think them we spit them,
We make them up into nursery rhymes.
We write them we think them we sing them,
Or speak them in truth or in lies....
Now we can feel, from the thought of existing, we're just what we...