There are things that tickle my nose
And wake me from my sleep,
Brush sticky hair from my haunted eyes.
"It was nothing but a dream."
If the devil speaks through me,
It's because I'm precious
And my mind is a motel
For all the lost souls with a purpose.
There are moments,
When my thoughts are alienated;
When my mind splits in two, three, and four parts—
And earth becomes my little place of hell.