It seems my demons find me,
When I am all alone.
And they fill the room around me,
Hurting me to the bone.

They know every lie I tell,
And know that morphine is my disease,
So they leave me with a needle,
A tickle and a tease.

For some odd reason,
I could never be too sure.
They leave me nothing to fill it,
But always leave me wanting more.

And somehow I find a way,
To fill my veins with blue.
When all I'm doing always,
Is filling the holes left from you.

And gold keeps paying for my habit,
But stops me from living a dream.
Keeps me just so lucid,
To destroy another beam.

And with each I crack into,
Takes me down from my support.
Until there is nothing left,
No, nothing but rapport.

So I tie off just one more time,
And pick up my larger rig.
As the needle pierces skin,
My own ****** grave, I dig.