| The self-inflicted state of mind | |
| A one-man struggle beneath the tower | |
| I think the clock still exist | |
| God just forgot to tap my shoulder | |
| I woke up today | |
| I wish I felt something | |
| The odor of my apathy | |
| Just might be true | |
| I want to be the things I see | |
| The pilgrim, that is me | |
| But I know I ain't that free | |
| The suburban, that is me | |
| Spirits rise and miss the eye | |
| Covered by the stench of judgment | |
| As God's reflection test my pride | |
| I serve the failure that's haunting me | |
| Twisted visions torturing | |
| Who claims to be the one? | |
| That filtered smile | |
| Just might be true | |
| I want to be the things I see | |
| The pilgrim, that is me | |
| But I know I ain't that free | |
| The suburban, that is me | |
| Can you hear the message | |
| As I wrestle with the clouds? | |
| I'm on the way to succumb | |
| It just might be true | |
| I want to be the things I see | |
| The pilgrim, that is me | |
| I want to be the things I see | |
| The suburban, that is me | |
| But I know I ain't that free |
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