I hate the nights,
that i have to tell myself to breathe.
When my lungs are so tired,
of feeding fire to my soul.
That my foundations are shaken
by something i can't control.
When nightmares do awaken,
pictures I can't console.
And the black tar memories, the nicotine worries,
addictive and profound.
Make nest in my lungs
to the laboured breathing sounds.
And the panic spreads like cancer,
seizing my life and breath,
while i go on living days turned years,
on this psychotic brink of death.
