There’s someone in my head but it’s not me

The lunatic is on the grass.
The lunatic is on the grass.
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs.
Got to keep the loonies on the path.

The lunatic is in the hall.
The lunatics are in my hall.
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And every day the paper boy brings more.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.

The lunatic is in my head.
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me ’til I’m sane.
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear.
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.

Just because a man spends 3 days locked in his room foaming at the mouth is no reason to treat him like a rabid dog. Those tight fitting white jackets are overrated. I started feeling the warmth of my own body tightening around me and it was comforting that I had a friend in myself.

The padded walls haven’t been cleaned in 100 years or more and the food does not even compare to Ted’s. I was well out of reach once I reached Doylestown, guided by the Saxon torches that were placed along the way.

The smell of pitch hung heavy in the air as the song of the hounds played in the background. How I wished I had a good pair of Wellington boots instead of those damn house slippers. But I made it. I made it out to tell my story of unjust incarceration. And to find some fine whiskey to again warm my soul, my Saxon mead having long dripped through the floorboard. Damn those men in white.

Betrayed and cast out like a pair of soiled boxers, I didn’t know where to hide. But I found solace in that whiskey bottle until I awoke. Try as they might, they couldn’t hold me in their Draconian dungeon. Now I sit behind this desk in unfamiliar surroundings trying to find the words to type on this short stop on my new journey. But I have no destination. Maybe the forest will again be my home. Maybe your place would be better. They won’t even let me log on to reach out to you so I am here.

But no matter where my future lies, I will always be the one – the only –

THE SEPAMAN.

 You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me.