I'm a simple man, with no real home;
Closet skeletons, and a heart of stone.
My words too few, and my mind too dense,
I think the thoughts of a thinking mess!
Searching for solace on this faulty plane,
where most inhabitants would call me insane.
I suffer a great deal 'cause of my own devices,
And this will continue till my better self arises.
Now I'm a crafty sucker, with devided minds;
One of them must sin, the other is Devine.
I remember to pray before heading to bed; but sometimes I simply wish to be dead.
Now I'm not suicidal, I love life to much;
even a few good friends with which to keep in touch.
Maybe I'm just being a little melodramatic, but can't I gear life into a full automatic?

I'm a simple man, with no real home.