Oh, that invisible noose gets tighter until
You can't fight it no longer. There goes your will
Like a ghost; parasite to the host.
Fuck. I'm a wound to myself that cuts thirty feet
Through the stomach, unbound and hardly discrete,
With stretch marks. Cradle it after dark.
Where will it go?
And social interaction seems so pointless and full.
I think I'm getting to a place that I can recall.
It's a childhood dream
And it's painful at best
And I don't want to leave my house.
Talk like a jibbering ass with salt in his veins
And a wily old face he barely maintains.
All fucked up, booze cannot interrupt
War. It's a hell of a thing when you're at the front
And the enemy's pulling some kind of stunt
To deceive. Tangled web that I weave.