My pen\'s got ink,
no room to think
there\'s nothing in my brain,
I think I\'m going insane.
As I wash the ink stain,
out of my brain,
so I have room to think.
Blank slate,
empty plate,
sidewalk grate,
sunshine that I hate.
Gray slab,
child hands that grab,
food smell,
empty shell,
sound of a bell,
reminds me that I\'m late.
But I don\'t care
about brushing unruly hair,
so I lay
in bed all day
so maybe I can think.
What am I left with?
What am I?
What?