These lips find most things hard to articulate
This mind’s a flood; this mouth’s not the gate
God, with inner workings that just not right
How can these thoughts ever hope to see the light?

The problem’s not with words, of those I have plenty
The problem is trying to make them sound not so empty
Drag their meaning through breaking breaths
Maybe if I yell or scream they'll make sense?

When I can’t explain what’s wrong, I keep quiet
You know something’s wrong, yet you buy it
I let it fester inside, grow claws and take hold
And you end up regretting buying what I’ve sold

And the worst part comes when I write
And then my words finally shed light
I feel silly and stupid for making a mess
And you’re part relieved, part distressed

I guess now that I’ve put up the proverbial lens
Close to my mind, its inner workings make sense
They’re still wrong, I might be mad
But it seems my head’s wired not to my mouth
But to my hands.