Anxiety gnaws at bones long gone raw,
Fears seem to be flying on 6th gear,
Maybe I need a therapist again to convince myself
To be kind to myself.
But do I deserve it?
Do I deserve it!
Do I deserve it?!
Maybe I don't.
Deserve to be wanted,
Deserve to be needed,
Deserve to be held,
Deserve to be needed.
To be kind is a big task,
Not sure I can really do it,
I'll try for you though.
I'll try for you.
Because you would not want to come home
To loneliness and torn veins,
To scratched skin and pink eyes,
A bleeding chest and empty lies,
A manifestation of depression in my person,
To the point that I'm not anything more than my illness...
It has won the war.
It has defined me into it.
Now there is nothing more to reduce me to
Other than flesh, skin and bones,
And maybe graveyard dust and ash
If it decides to be thorough.
