You give me the feeling,
Of Dido on the funeral pyre,
And I am the wood

You have me as some beast of the wilderness
Fears God in the spear and the teeth of metal
And I cannot help but run towards it

You are a sickness that has developed in my head, an idealism that may do nought but destroy me

You are terrifying and controlling, destructive and wholly
Consuming the flesh of my brain and in pain Perpetual

And you go on not caring.