Like piranha, darkness eats away at the sky leaving pink and blood orange clouds in its wake.
Guilt eats away at me.
The sickness, the urge... every breath of lust
In my direction, I must have a taste.
Happiness is an illusion of the sick drivin, by what ales them.
Itching at their skin just for another taste. After the hit, the bump, the rush, clarity fills our mind. We start to make sense of why it's wrong why it ruins our lives... till the next time...