I'm bringing it up.
If said right,
what will be left?
I can breathe, hand me the smokes.
I cannot, hand me the vodka....
addict, addiction, addicting.
Which one belongs to me?
If I would like to,
I could keep the sand, in my hand.
I don't want to,
so it escapes through my open palm.
The flowing grains are free, are free.
Never to be held by me.
Discretion is not in my personality, it's not
in my vocabulary.
I scream my emotions with silence,
and my lies are opaque when I plead them to hide me.
I hold this intensity in my mind, racing racing,
speeding speeding, crashing, crashing
until my brain is nothing but the ash
in the closest cigarette.
Now, as a closing statement,
I never truly existed.