Left eye, left eye, they call him crazy, they know he's not. Red like the crazy, the blood on his knife. Left eye, left eye, don't let them take you shake you break you. They call him a genius, they call him a fool.
He think their anxious faces are lovely and their worries even more so. He is living, so painfully beautifully, cruelly awake. What more do they want from him? They take and take and he has nothing left to give.
He likes to think he's human, he likes to think he's not. But he's not a monster oh no please no please. His words are like poetry, chilling and cold and his movements are fluid and quick like the knives he throws through the morning air.
His thoughts are a hazy crazy nightmare, jutted and garbled and broken. Lazy crazy misfit. He sees the world in black and white, he spends his days in shades of red. Tucks away insanity safely behind a spinning left eye, left eye. Keep it secret, keep it safe.
Lock it up, away, smile away your fears, steal away your emotions they never saved you. You are perfectly sane and whole and normal. Hide those shaking hands because you are fine. Perfect.
Keep it together now.
And then colors return to your world, colors like orange and pink and indigo, colors you've forgotten. They call him lazy because he's not energetic and loud like the insufferable green thing. They call him a pervert because of an iridescent dog-earred book to fend them away but that's okay no one wants to talk to him anyway.
Left eye, Left eye, conceal away those troubles, unleash all of your agony, quaking as they add another straw to your back. They call him a prodigy, they call him a legend. He knows he's not. Just a quiet guy in a loud world, a mad world. Always spinning. Always changing.
They look upon him, call him to the front, here we are, guide us lead us save us. They forget, they forget their fears of him and their rumors and petty lies. They look upon him, see him as perfectly stable and ready to take their lives in the palm of his hands.
They forget his potential, oh, how easily they forget what he was about, what he lived for. He'll paint their worlds in splashes of red, show them what they've forgotten, come here, come here, let me remind you…
The music of a thousand chirping birds in the palm of his hand. Left eye, left eye, tell me your secrets.
And
he
begins
to
move