Everyone's a critic but they got nothing to critique,
I punch my hand through the mirror,
blood fills up the sink,
I try to keep my calm but I'm always on the brink,
they tell me it's all good, just calm down and think,
but that makes nothing better,
it's like putting on a sweater in 90 degree weather,
suffacting my soul, trying to take control,
my mind has a mind of its own,
I tell it to stop being a child, I'm grown,
but that's never shown.
Maybe I'm just weak, people think that I'm a tweak, can't keep my cool, I'm such a fool.