I have a song, but it hides in my brain
It whispers to me that I might not me sane
It buzzes, it fuzzes, a rush, it complains
It strikes me with brushes, with art, can't refrain
From pencils, from crayons, from pens, then again
Our tension, portrayal, comprehension, is when
We function, like beings, the tension, us men
Is true when believing, and hence it is sense
With sense we function
It's our addiction
All in conjunction
The fence of fiction
Is French of Spanish
The pain will vanish
When sense we banish
Still tense at heart
The world is whole, yet torn apart
We're in control, it's what we are
The past is close, the future far
And this is why we reason
Through winter, summer, fall, spring
An everchanging season
Or is the world the same, since
We ran away in treason
To find the treasure
I can't find
To search for truth
Within our mind
When we know truth
Is out in place
A planetary balance
Now, erased