In blackjack they say twenty one is the max

Higher than that you get bust

But I'm going to go on, this is not my first

I have got nothing to go on, running on fumes

But if I don't write I feel that my head will burst

Why is life so realistic and predictable

Why can't magic or something come and turn the tables

I can look ten years ahead in the future and I know

What I'll be able to do and what I can show

It ain't very good, it makes me feel low

I write these poems so my thoughts have somewhere to go

I have got no friends and no one to talk to

Scratch that, but none listen to my verse unless they got to

'You are broken you need to be fixed' I thought too

But I don't know how and there's a lot to

do, other than taking care of myself

Because even if I give it all the time of the world

The mind isn't going to heal by itself

This isn't a videogame where you regen what you lost

I need a priest, a doctor or just someone who cares 

For the ones bitten by the cold frost.