Questioning every thought and decision. I must be exact, have precision.
Does my illness have me thinking the wrong thought? Or am I thinking normal? I bet not.
Did I embarrass myself or do oaky? Did they look at me in a strange way?
I wish I didn’t talk so much, that I’d think before speaking and such.
I have never liked my face, always looking at it in disgrace.
I hope they aren’t mad at me, who is it I’m supposed to be?
When will this house get old, I move a lot I am told.
Who was on the phone? Don’t talk to me in that tone.
Did they really talk to me that way? Or is it my illness, I can’t say.
Imagine a time I didn’t think twice. Believe me, it wasn’t nice.
Am I thinking wrong or not?
Our Roses Were Yellow 