Why can't I ever
Corral my thoughts and keep them together
It's like my head is always under the weather
I know reader I sound like a broken record

But

If you can place yourself in the position
That fate decided to place me in
When my head moves quicker than my mouth
And sometimes slower than a dead fish in a drought

There's never an in between
Its either up or down to the Nth of extremes
I try to keep my composure but I always end up making a scene


That's what happens when there's no in-between

What can you do if your own head doesn't make sense
the silence maddening to sit through and the cacophony of every day leaving inside your mind an unholy stench
It feels like there's in my head next to the iPad a ******* monkey wrench
I guess I don't understand anymore what's going on why can't this make sense
Unless I write my head will snap open and the scars will be visible
But sometimes even among most of my friends I can't help but feel invisible
Ridiculed and the things I helped bring become dead and forgotten
God it's like I'm listening to myself give a review on that site with tomatoes that are rotten
I'm not scheming or plotting just looking for that lighthouse in the fog
Because I can't find inspiration in this mental planet of smog