I'm sick to my stomach with my own paranoia,
It tears away at my innards keeping me aware,
That my despair is ever present,
Ever vigilant.
I can never know for certain what can be certain,
Nothing feels like it's ever in place,
Whenever I think things begin to look up,
The terror of its demise sets upon,
Devouring all the light surrounding it.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
I'm sick to my stomach with my own paranoia,
It tears away at my innards keeping me aware,
That my despair is ever present,
Ever vigilant.
I can never know for certain what can be certain,
Nothing feels like it's ever in place,
Whenever I think things begin to look up,
The terror of its demise sets upon,
Devouring all the light surrounding it.