Call a therapist or write your suicide note
Either way you’re going to have to decide
To live or to die, because I don’t feel like I’m living
Or will be much longer
If I keep sitting and spinning in the dirty corners of my room
Cobweb brain breaking free for the first time in a while
Still feel like I’m walking in the dark next to a chasm
Butterflies and needles in my stomach, Nicorette until my jaw aches
Remembering the white bag my mother left in
Carrying it to the van with the man who would take her to the crematory
I kept believing this was not the end of her story, helping her die was my personalized purgatory
Haven’t been in the ward for a while, being sane seems to be in style
Still it’s all trial and error, a dare, true comedy is attempting to defining what is fair
Equal and just is covered in rust, so don’t make a fuss about freedom
Should’ve tossed myself drunk off the back of that ship, worn my SAPIs to sink
Released from this mental toil, forget being buried in soil
