Words attaching themselves to the inside of your stomach
Waiting on the acid to break down paragraphs and periods
Pull me into the damp grass, play doctor with your scalpel on my open liver
Shivering into seizures, lights going round like ceiling fans
All the best laid plans fall apart like sand if given enough time
Somewhere down the line we lose rhyme and reason
What was once considered treason ordinary fare
Waiting on the next solar flair, might bleach out my hair, my rotting bones