Is life like a church, you hear the choir singing,
Or is it like a large city where you hear a woman screaming?
Is it like the woods, solitary from the world,
Or is it like the waves, whipped and whirled?
Could it be something as small as a weed we see,
Or something as big as a red wood tree?
Something as bright as the sun,
Or is it the dark moon on the run?
Could it be as beautiful as a little red rose?
Or as ugly as big black crows?
What life is to us is something we decide.
It could make us happy or it could make us cry.
But what life is to all of us is a sculpture,
And if you don't make it, somebody else will shape it.