Like the rage
Of a thousand winds
My mind spins
To and fro again

Similar to the wind
The mess inside my head
Remains invisible
Yet violent

Sometimes I wonder why
We have warnings
For tornadoes in the sky
But not a glance
Towards the hurricanes
That dwell inside

But when I picked up a pen
I began to wonder again

I thought of all the wreckage both leave behind
And realised the reason why

A tornado in the sky
Will leave wreckage for both you and I

A tornado in my mind
Will leave wreckage that only I will find

So while I pick up the mess of a thousand men
I will also pick up my pen.

That's what's gonna **** me,
Stress;
A little
Less;
The middle of a
Mess;
I should really stop saying
Yes;
'Cause that's what's gonna **** me,
And now I'm dead.
But let's
Keep this
To myself.