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 too.

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?