Help Isn't an Option

My mind, sadistic with the thoughts of torture,
Possibly even to myself.
I linger here, buried and locked away inside a buried cell,
Crying out to anyone who would be willing to help,
But I only recieve an echo as an answer.

I can hear others, speaking to others as though they don't see me,
I can see others, fully knowing they can't see me.
I can hear their cries and their pain, and even though I wish to help,
I know...
Help is not an option.

I'm just crazy, that's what they all tell me,
Go ahead, admit it, you even think that.

      Schizophrenia could be one factor,
        Maybe she's Manic Depressive,
        She could even be Bipolar,
          She's quite Obssessive Compulsive and tries to be so Perfect with it,
          Let's take her away,
            She needs the help.

Help isn't an option, not in my case,
Not in yours, not in theirs.
My emotional breakdowns rush through my body,
Weakening me, breaking me down into what seems to be nothing,
Telling me of those who torture myself into such a state.

A quick temper is what one may call it,
I feel different, a device maybe, implanted in my head, tells me I'm not who I say I am.
I feel the burning desire to torture those who torture me,
Threefold is the key.

The voices echo in my head, along with my cries.
I can still hear their begging of mercy,
and as I wish to give them want they need,
I can only stand and watch,
Just stand and watch.
Am I fulfilling my burning desire?
It feels as though it could never be perfect enough.

      Schizophrenia could be one factor,
        Maybe she's Manic Depressive,
        She could even be Bipolar,
          She's quite Obsessive Compulsive and tries to be so Perfect with it,
          Let's take her away,
            She needs the help.

Help isn't an option.
Not in my case.
Not in yours.
And not in theirs, either.

      Craziness is one factor.
        Being psycho might be what we're all so perfect at.