As if a cloud encapsulates my head.
If everyone in the world felt this way,
Everyone in the world would be dead.
The head is the thing that the body transports,
To wherever the body desires,
And tries to make sense of the things it does.
Sometimes to do that it needs be a liar.
And then only to itself, so what's the point,
Of having the head, but to coordinate the act?
I guess the conflict between all the shoulds and the aughts,
Give meaning where otherwise there's just fact.
And it's alright,
I'm not giving my head up anytime soon.
I just hope it has an idea where to go,
Or that those around me can guide me from doom.
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