The Visitors come in the dead of night
telling me something isn't quite right.
The world is in turmoil, in so much pain,
who knows who is crazy and who is sane.
Friends come and go, leaving me in their wake,
with nary a thought or a care for my sake.
The Visitors have large, hollow eyes of gray;
They listen to everything that I say.
The Visitors come so often, it's true,
I'm no longer sure who is visiting who.
If you knock and the "occupied" light is red:
The Visitors are here inside my head.
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