• In the darkness of my mind, nothing is warm and kind.
    In the bowels within my soul, there remains one empy hole.
    My only vice or so it seems, something cold lurking in my dreams.
    Paranoia reigns on high, my life has always been do or die.
    Over my shoulder and shrouding my head, making me think I'm better off dead.
    What kind of god would torture me so? Filling my heart with thoughts of woe.