What if I was my own drug?
How close could be my own fix?
Cannot fathom, it’s him I run from,
That’s why I was turning mental tricks.
Is this the cure or just a splintered soapbox?
For the ego enormous but so overly denied?
For reasons I dig for but forbidden to unearth,
Sins forgiven only crime is we never even tried.
Wastelands of the bed we made and die in,
Gods come out at night in ever twisting dreams,
Well wasted when we can be weathered weary,
Anything to make the landscape not how it seems.
No rest nor sabbaths for the wicked or indeed the broken,
They said I’ll be picking up pieces till the end of time,
This time now a crossroad our backs on burning bridges,
Lacing together armor from wounded leather, finally mine.