(K.J.Garside C.Gray)



There is an anger comes off this girl,

That she can't find an origin,

The things I plant won't grow,

Yet the wild weeds flower in wind and snow.



Nothing to be nothing to prove,

Nowhere to go nothing to lose.



When will my season come,

Was I born of infertile soil,

Is my seed without song,

Can I not see the woods for these forests in my head,

Can I not see the sunlight as I play dead?



Nothing to be nothing to prove,

Nowhere to go nothing to lose.