My skin is steaming, bubbles forming like scales
As I waste away on my own watch
And there's a churning sensation inside of me
The tides are turning again and again and again
Like in a washing machine.
And I could panic or scream for a bit
Though I'd never be heard
Because help is for the weak, dear
Help is for the weak.
I could wish for calming waters
Or I could make things worse
Like always.
But, truth be told,
I'm a fraud.
My skin is but leather and I'm stuffed
Though I may be alive you'd not know upon first glance
Because I repeat, and repeat like a machine
Without faltering.
All that can be done is dream
For a new path, or a turn for the better
But it's impossible when only in one direction.