Trust cannot be trusted and I can't respect respect;   When honesty combusted in a sick inclement chest;   When tragedy is something of a freedom gone inept;   By virtue of a virtue stained, my dignity bereft.    Maybe it's the marajuana; maybe it's the pain;   Misplaced, misthought, misfelt, mismatched, misgiven by your claim.  Maybe it's the quality a better half has lacked;   Or those which you have circumscribed to mask the trashy fact.    Maybe I'm a psycho with a soft spot in my heart;   Or maybe I'm a genius with a heart that fell apart;   Or maybe I'm a simpleton who cannot see the forest;   Or maybe I'm a wicked one who purposely ignores it.  Or maybe "maybe's" not a word and what I am just is;   And what "just is" is nothing more than pain and ignorance.