Doctors and nurses digging through my head
Stitching through psyche like needle through thread
Picking through all of the places in mind
Searching for something that they'll never find
Looking for feelings and workings and cures
They think they can help me...
But they can't, I am sure.

They think ink blots and head shocks will break down my chains
But these only bring physical, additional pain
I can't understand what they hope to achieve
My confessions and stories that they won't believe
And if they won't listen then what shall I do?
The voices in my head provide no help to.

And most of the time, they place me in my cell
My own personal, padded and very small hell
Again, this is something they think will help me
But I don't want to be here, I want to be free
Surely they know this, surely they care?
But it seems their concern vanished into thin air
It seems that they want to wash their hands of me
For what value to anyone is insanity?