You can taste the psychosis on my lips but there's no guarantee that I will feel it. There's an umbilical chord holding me down to ***** reality and depending on my perspective it either looks like a dog leash or a noose.
Inject a sedative with a rusty needle at the end of my nervous system. I'm immune; there's misery mixed in with my white blood cells that swallows all sense of introspection. When my soul plummets down like an anchor and the floating stops feeling safe, I welcome the chest pains with open arms. The pins and needles in my lungs are better than burning them.
Look through my eyes and sometimes nothing is real. Live through my heart and it hurts like hell when I'm not drowning in air. Think with my head and either you will want to get out, or it will kick you out.