Sometimes I’m lonely, other times I’m not. Sometimes I’m quiet, I think that I’m all I’ve got. Sometimes I think about great things that could be. Sometimes I think about the soul inside of me. All the time I write, like fetters on my legs. When I don’t want to my mind practically begs. To write something down, to get it all out. I couldn’t stop doing it, of that I have no doubt. To push and to shove, I do both to me. But I like the restraint, I don’t know how to be free when I’m outside of my mind. But when I am in my own head, freedom in there doesn’t mean that somewhere else people are dead.