People aren't afraid to stomp on your heart;

then, they become mad because it's your blood that has splattered on the floor.

No...there is too much misunderstanding.

Everyone is throwing fastballs of word bunches at one another,

and no one is at peace.

You don't know me.

You don't know anything at all.

You don't know of every awakened night and every trudging morning.

But, you know, if my eyes so much as move too fast, I'm "mad."

I'm not mad when they say I'm mad.

Even when I am, I'm not gonna tell you.

I fight off those internal madmen in my head with a sword.

I am entitled to a scream? A hard puff? A loud, viscous sigh?

Yes. No. Yes.