One of these days I'll be alright;
Does being alive make you wanna die?
Cause, I know what you mean...
Carefree, I don't know if I'll ever be.

I'll rot away with this disease till I'm dead and gone.

Right now is the only moment I have;
And the fear of all that is to come blankets it all,
Inhibiting me from enjoying anything.
There's no healing for your wound:
Your injury's fatal.

There's no need or reason to try to cherish the brief moments of slight reprieve.

The cracks, you slipped through.  How did that feel?  It was easy.  Did you have a  choice?   Years and years of wandering through Hell.  That point in time separates what you are from the good ol' days.

Feels OK sometimes, letting the time go by;  with the right amount of toxins, wishing you didn't have to feel anything at all.

I swear I didn't mean to die.  But there's a fine line between wanting to and not caring.  Those little moments creep up on you.

We're so small.  The sensations are something else...  the sensations are much stronger.  Like cancer.