What can you do if your own head doesn't make sense the silence maddening to sit through and the cacophony of every day leaving inside your mind an unholy stench It feels like there's in my head next to the iPad a ******* monkey wrench I guess I don't understand anymore what's going on why can't this make sense Unless I write my head will snap open and the scars will be visible But sometimes even among most of my friends I can't help but feel invisible Ridiculed and the things I helped bring become dead and forgotten God it's like I'm listening to myself give a review on that site with tomatoes that are rotten I'm not scheming or plotting just looking for that lighthouse in the fog Because I can't find inspiration in this mental planet of smog