A madman with no fixed mood
No original thought,
Just going blindly where the arrows point
Not knowing how he is gonna feel the next second
Not knowing what he will do
till he does it.
The scars in my brain
gave rise to scars in my heart
The former healed with time,
Seems like those are there till I rot.
What exactly do I need to do here?
Run a mile, get sweaty,
Sweep the house, play music,
drink my gin, write my sorrow?
If I were so attached to my sorrow
Would I need gin to express it?