I sleep with violence.
Tossing.
Turning.
No hope for dreaming.
I lay awake with the drowning feeling
that my better half will leave while I'm crying.

It is a deepenging sense of withdrawn effects
that my inner sense with-takes the defects
of a never ending pendulum.

Every course in which,
well, in which it's surrounding,
I can't suffocate such intoxicating awareness
that my dreams are made below a subconcious.
To then -I owe-no thought too complicating,
that my life is of blood,
and no ticket for boarding.

My addition adds up to be a number worth subracting.
But all in all,
well,
truth be told,
decades spent,
are years worth pondering.

So if the past is the past,
and the future is within our grasp,
why spend our minutes fading?
Why not grab ahold of what's been told,
and cry out to whats our little dumpling?

Behave to our greatest encounters,
behold, the lies keep us grounded,
what's not exposed,
will keep us warm,
yet our mouths are our pass
for drowning.