Head on, it's what we're told in the face of disaster. But I'm cold with hate and it's directed at her. My brain. Its I’m not sane It'ts not plane  I can't explain, I'm not a master. It's indiscretion in concept, but I have fears that bring me tears, and I'm innept. I try cut it out with shears. I know it's wierd, but a ***** came loose, though I'm not made of gears. I've been Stuck here for years. I'm a puppet of emotions I can't choose, taking drugs to confuse my nervous system blues. I need warmer colors and soon before this depression insues.