Trust cannot be trusted and I can't respect respect;
When honesty combusted in a sick inclement chest;
When tragedy is something of a freedom gone inept;

By virtue of a virtue stained, my dignity bereft.

Maybe it's the marajuana; maybe it's the pain;

Misplaced, misthought, misfelt, mismatched, misgiven by your claim.
Maybe it's the quality a better half has lacked;
Or those which you have circumscribed to mask the trashy fact.


Maybe I'm a psycho with a soft spot in my heart;
Or maybe I'm a genius with a heart that fell apart;

Or maybe I'm a simpleton who cannot see the forest;
Or maybe I'm a wicked one who purposely ignores it.
Or maybe "maybe's" not a word and what I am just is;

And what "just is" is nothing more than pain and ignorance.