I have always known that there was something wrong with me.
Call it hypochondria or anything you please.
But something doesn't click inside me, wheels have gone awry,
And as I'm getting older I'm becoming misaligned.

Every year has brought a stronger sense of certainty.
I cannot tell exactly what, but something's wrong with me.
Perhaps there's something within me, perhaps it must be killed.
I do not know quite what it is; eventually I will.

When others laugh at others' jokes I laugh along with them.
My problem is forgotten when I'm safe among my friends.
But when I find I'm all alone and silence fills my brain,
The feeling rises once again to offer its refrain.

I fear someday the thing will win, or else it too will die.
But victory is not in sight until I recognize
The nature of my problem and the nature of its cause,
The nature of its grip on me, the power of its claws.