Spitting Thorns In A Comatose

Unable to withstand this empty daydreaming.

Breeding emotions, wearing out my vitality.

Avoiding the subject, just making it disappear.

Sucking up like a vortex, the primrose path.

My essence feels anorexic, trapped in skin and bone.

My mind shrivelled, like a snail in salt, in a perfect shell.

Been given a sedative to dull my perceptions like it's fucking midnight all the time.

The eclipse of my conscious closing the venetian blinds.

Vaporise my conjoined twin, the enemy of evoking my memory of a life fossilised,

Clinging to the timepiece and speeding through the deepest lies.

Voices of malice, my head throbs violently.

Avoiding the subject just making it disappear.

Sucking up like a vortex, the primrose path.

There is no question within my mind,

that something's been lost of what we once had,

and things that are kept from the surface are all relative to this compact version of me.

Left are only a few infrared paparazzi,

could you imagine the scene if everyone had tools like these?

I've tired of the external.

Trying to focus, I'm trying to open a trinket within this abstract island.

I'm not wicked, it's not unheard of, just misunderstood in a bed of roses.

My essence feels anorexic, trapped in skin and bone.

My mind shrivelled, like a snail in salt, in a perfect shell.