I have lots of empty pages that I feel the need to fill.
I have lots of pens filled with ink waiting for me to spill.
My doctor says don’t worry and gives me another pill.
My empty coffee sits near the window, yes it’s on the sill.
I push it to the edge and try to recover because it’s a thrill.
I wish people didn’t feel the need to hurt and to kill.
When the voices in my head all talk at once it’s a shrill.
The chances of them stopping is less than nill.
Just shut the hell up be quiet, be still.
It’s your choice not ours even though it’s your will.
My life is a promise that I never will fulfill.
I wonder why my parents didn’t name me Dennis?