You can cut to the bone with, all my angry obsessions, all these chalky happy pills, and all their consequences, am I done with sleeping? am I done with waking up? am I through with thinking? that I've taken to much into my apologies, and lucid dreams, and fucked up thinking
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I bleed inside, I fear my life, I wake and I hide, I choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits, and agoraphobic dreams of happiness
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You can cut to the fucking point, of how I'm so frustrated, as you strip away this fear, and you sand and paint it, am I done with drinking? am I done with waking up? am I tired of thinking? that I've taken to much into all I want to be, the ghost of me is far from leaving
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I feel claustrophobic thinking, that my skin is a prison in itself, you want to share my cell?
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The Blame Anxiety
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| A Day At The Fair |
