It is not really that simple.

All day you just call me mental.
I think I might just go grab a ******* pistol.

Cold steel barrels in my hand,
Hell, I can't even stand.
While I just pound this hard concrete and sand.

I am pacing these corridors in circles
it is making my **** head hurt,
**** spinning around me,
this torture is always making it worse.

Hey, don't look at me as if I am the problem,
these little ants on the ground,
I just want to stomp them.

Fueling my insecurities, drinking down the potion.
Do I just sit here or throw it into motion?
Heck, what is all of this commotion?

It is not really that simple.

Contemplating my disappearance,
I am no more looking into the distance.
Why are you still here?
It is not like I am missing.

Oh, wait, wait, calm down with all this internal chatter,
voices telling me that I don't even matter.
Rising and falling off of life's external ladder,
trying to look in the future,
hold on, it is making me a little madder!!!

I need to see this through
and just meditate.
Wait one minute, my pills over there on the counter,
should I just medicate?

Contemplate, hesitate, or it is too late?

It is not really that simple.

Kinda crazy how it sounds.
Back on the hard concrete and sand.
I see myself, right here.
Clearly as I stand,
breathing and seeing
my life's simple plan.