This is so ridiculous.  

My mind tries to be so meticulous, 

But its ideals are quite insidious.  

The mess in this room is hideous.  

 

It's painted over with invisible blue.  

It's a hue... You don't get it, do you?  

They suspect the unexpected - 

It's unexpected because it's too deep to be detected.  

 

Since when did they become detectives? 

There's something else I should inspect: 

The conflict arising when I assert 

And the other me wants a real answer.  

 

Place it in an exposition 

And watch what it does; inquisition; 

X-rays, x-rays; find the tumor 

Growing in the folds of humor.

 

Let us have a quiz show! 

Whose laughter is this, do you know? 

"It is yours!  I can tell!"  

Sure, you can tell, but can you know?  

Did you notice how the smile fell?  

 

Does anyone have a real answer, 

Something to explain the cancer 

Growing inside the shell of this Cancer 

Crawling sideways across the floor, 

Scuttling into painted ideals, 

But never a door, 

Or a hamster wheel, 

Or something to distract this 

From the thought of keeling over?  

 

She's turning over the x-rays.  

"Everything's fine," she says, 

But that doesn't explain or excuse 

The messy room in her head.  

 

"This is so ridiculous," 

The Mother Cancer inside her commented.  

"I can't scuttle sideways or face my obstacles.  

What do you expect me to do?!  

What is this... Invisible blue?  

Start by taking off the layers.  

Peel them off with your claws, if you have to!  

Do you know what's good for you?"  

 

I want an answer, 

Mother Cancer, 

Not a version 

Of assertion!  

I'll place this in an exposition!  

We'll see if anyone cares!  

 

What? Was that really unexpected?  

You thought that you were a detective?  

Have you ever self-dissected, 

Pulling out every piece, 

No matter if it's deceased, 

Or keys to something 

That you've lost? 

In fact, that could be what you're looking for.  

You'll need to look forever more.  

Maybe look inside yourself, 

At the x-ray.  Examine your mental health.  

 

Mother Cancer left the room 

And returned to what's bound to doom itself.  

The heart, one day, won't be reluctant 

In completing the task of self-destruction.  

A task?  

A task?!  

 

The wish list only gets longer 

Because I can't help but ponder

What one's supposed to and built to want.  

I write them down in my own font.  

 

They fall off of the shelf, 

Unraveling towards bad health.  

I try to paint them as they come down.  

Nothing's working... Get out of this town?  

 

No matter where I move 

I will always have this tumor 

This body of a Cancer, 

With its shell, its insanity enhancer.  

 

It keeps it all hidden 

But not free.  It's all bedridden.  

Nothing goes out, nothing goes in; 

Quarantine every sin.  

 

Clean their bedpans, 

But don't hold their cold, dead hands.  

The invisible blue will get stuck on you.  

"But it's just a hue..." 

You don't get it, do you?  

 

Check their folds of humor; 

It's better to take care of it sooner.  

Hopefully, it's not too late 

To bother medicating.  

 

This is so ridiculous.  

My room is so meticulous, 

But my other ideals are still insidious.  

The mess in my mind is hideous.