Nothing can destroy the pain,
that stings like it's from a needle,
And the clouds that float to the brain,
No escape from hole buried weasel.

Tracks in arms are not on rails
A boat without breeze cannot sail,
The warmth of such an adrenaline high,
it catches up before we reach the skies.

Who am I but a pale ghost,
Paid the ultimate cost,
Inside out, hard not to contrive
the last time I gave thanks to breeze.

The sands keep getting closer,
the time bottle is no eraser,
I have always contained my demons,
tell that to those reading the sermons.

Ironically, those who have helped me,
have been the Buddhists & Christians,
they know not to cast their stones,
when as humans, we're all doing wrong.