When you talk
I can hear gears whirling and missing
And see misfired electricity racing to the end of burnt-out of neurons
You are talking to yourself and not to me
And you always smoke all the weed

Your world is populated by imaginary friends
A whispering, mumbling, shouting cacophony
And you’re always talking to them
But you say you’re not schizophrenic

You are convinced of your genius
But how much is pretension
And how much is delusion
And how much sanity prevention

‘Artist’ is a wall you hide behind
To avoid getting help
It’s all getting tired
Call the doctor

You need help
Like fifty psychiatrists in Jamaica bent out of their brains just thinking about your problems
You need help
Like Freud and Jung tag teaming you on a couch of marshmallows help
You need help
Psychologists, psychiatrists, psych-nurses, witch doctors everybody helping you
Then you might get your shit together
And stop being such a pain in the ass

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