The shape of my, my soul is hard to see when half of me
Lies below, underneath, underneath the blue and green
I'm an ice-camper, camping on an iceberg with icy curves
In a seabed of shallow waters when soul and society merged
I know my ego, but still, still I feel...guilty
For not my shading soul, saving my soul from my own reality
How do I find the pure ice beneath the mist and all of this?
When the way of the world, weight of the world weighs 200,000 bricks?!!!
What was I, was I like before the world corrupted me?
How far, how deep does my true soul lay....how many leagues?
The interior temperature must be a, a lot colder
Than a giant glacier or the snowy layers that stay and lay like a loafer
Bigger than bold, more bold than big; I'm telling you it feels like a boulder
Crushing your heart, you wonder how dark it is under your own icicle arch
How do we find the pure ice beneath the mist and all of this?
When the way of the world, weight of the world is way too heavy to lift
This iceberg is blocking my own vision underneath some kind of prism
Creating some kind of tension wrecking my comprehension
Locked in a third dimension leaving me too disturbed to mention
I can feel it pierce me so and now I long to know
How deep does this iceberg go through my soul?
Oh I, I want to know
When will I see the underside of me?
What will I find beneath...the tip of the iceberg?