The Neurotic, Pseudo-psychotic, Overly Symbolic Me

I’m Sitting Just sitting But then again not really I’m Thinking Sitting and thinking Still, not completely Thinking about what I'm thinking Scrutinizing each thought with great detail and I ask myself “Really?” It's scary It truly scares me To sit with only my thoughts So I shudder Ice dropping into my core What horror? To have days upon days with only I Like I am one person Yet many Still only me But me, many times over Who do I tell? If anyone knew It'd be off to a white padded cell My hell Where I'd be left with my thoughts I know I'm not crazy But that's what I feel Like nothing is ever really real Relatively speaking Speaking of perpective But perspective is what I'm seeking Solid ground I want for once to not change an ounce of my outlook Is it easier to outsource your information? I question myself Who comes up with this stuff? It’s like there’s a newsroom in my brain In which everyone else practices restain Except for one asshole That one who finds the smallest thing fascinating Brews horror stories to keep it all entertaining And the big boss has an anxiety ridden desk lady Who basically runs the show so everyone thinks the boss is kind of shady Alright, I’m crazy And I don’t make any sense But maybe the craziest part Is that before the finish and after the start... I knew this Fully embrace it Because without it I fear I’d be dull and complacent