You've turned yourself to stone;
inside you're hard clay.
It's as if you say . . .
"Leave me be, stay away."
All tenderness is gone--
your shoulders . . . boulders . . .
living without care.
Your life is like a blurr . . .
even tears can't seep in;
you are blind to them.
If feelings emerge,
you roll away again.

Your flesh is pasty, gray;
the inside is weeds.
In the garden of life
ev'ry flower has needs.
Your bud can never bloom
because you won't share.
You complain there's no room;
you want the sun, air.
You shalln't be ever green.
Your leaves soon will pass . . .
unnourished, you're mean . . .
and your petals won't last.

You've turned yourself to stone;
no flower . . . the pot.
In life's green garden . . .
you decay and rot.
On a misty morning
they'll take you away
and nobody will miss you
cause you were dull, gray.
Selfish is a cold heart
one centered 'round you.
You have no one to blame;
'cause the blame's on you.