They say I can't go home till I can take my meds. I don't think I can go home till they get my meds right. Or I get it right. It's all about me after all. Not them. Fuck them. They think it's about them. It's about them getting it right. I can get it right. When the notes are right it will be right. The meds. The little pills. Sometimes I don't swallow them. They aren't right. Sometimes I feel fine without them. Sometimes I don't. They aren't right. Are yours? They aren't. I'm old enough to say if I want to be here or not. I don't. They say I can't go home anyway. A threat to myself. Or other. Or others. What others? They did it wrong. They put me together wrong. He didn't wash his brush at the right time, the colours got mixed up. All mixed together, they aren't right. They're awfully muddled. All mixed together makes mud. It makes nothing, It's swamp, it sucks things up and pulls them down and covers them up so you can't find them anymore there aren't swamps in France. Only here. Only here where we get things wrong. Sinking in a swamp. In a swamp we sink, we claw and try to swim. It wraps you up anyway. Crocodiles like swamps. They can move it in it and hold you down. They are muddled, coloured like mud to blend in. Why don't I blend in if I'm so muddled. They are trying to repaint me. Repaint me with pills. Will that make the colours all right. Alligators.
I do that too. I do it with notes. I can make anything with notes. I can make your world all over again. it's not fair. He wiped the canvas clean in the wrong spot. She wasn't muddled. She writes some of my songs. I write a lot of songs. I can't take my meds. They aren't right yet. I'll take them when they're the right colours.
