Just Another Maniac

i sit around all day
counting clouds like cutaways
i pull my hair out, strand by strand
i make excuses that catch in the dripping pan

i have not been to school this year
piled all my books in the fire and watched them disappear
i paint my face with foxes blood
i do what i feel, and ignore what i want

how can it be somehow so essential
that i'm here?
i don't see the sense