There's a disease, it`s living inside me.
Itching like fleas, it torments despite thee,
previous ideals of peace and joy.
Old film reels, I was just a boy.
The virus grows, with life filling sin.
It just goes, a knife drilling in.
Anger, frustration and all the stress.
Despair, sadness, and all the rest.
Every little thing ticking me off.
The disease is to my lungs I'm starting to cough.
Statements and words I would normally withhold.
Now hate meant to be heard, formally cold.
People itch and cry, “My life's so hard watch me sigh.”
Please, I wonder why I had to sit and watch my father die.
Enveloped by true pain I'll never forget.
Developed hurt, still haunted by it.
Will I come through or will I be buried?
Will I think something new, my soul be carried?
My soul`s heavy and broken, no longer well spoken.
The idea of no hope is starting to soak in.
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