These thoughts inside me have no end,
Whispers, voices, enemies, friends.
They rage, they falter, some crumble to dust but one thing is clear, not one can I trust.
Tight, cruel, cold is the grasp.
Clawing, shredding, a tremor that lasts.
It's threading, and pulling, and sewing me up Until there's no room for fear in this cup.
I don't flow with the water, I don't bend in the wind.
I am rigid, and taut, a bow string with skin.
Hurt me, love me, break me some more.
I am the wave eroding the shore. The fire that burns, hot and alive.
Ice and snow, deliver a bite. Voices, voices, taunting me ever.
Until with a word, this world I will sever.