You can cut to the bone with all my angry obsessions. All these chalky happy pills, and their consequences. Am I done with sleeping? Am I done with waking up? And I'm tired of thinking, that I've taken to much into my apologize and lucid dreams and fogged up thinking? I bleed inside, I fear my life. I wake and I hide, I choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits, an agoraphobic dream of happiness. You can cut to the f**king point of how I'm so frustrated. It's how you strip away these fears, then you sand and paint them. Am I done with drinking? Am I done with waking up? Cause I'm so tired of thinking, that I've taken to much into all I want to be. This ghost in me is far from leaving... I feel claustrophobic thinking, that my skin is a prison in itself. Do you want to share my