In the palms of some mad love
Catharsis and a coma, symptoms of my soma
From what foul slum did this sickness spread?
Not everyone's a part of the lucky some
Eyes wide open, conscious, willing and brash
Embellished by their good biology
My truth is like a bubble
A fragile sphere floating in some nervous stasis
That popped so subtly I still remained stoic
But my symptoms came on strong
Vague and vermillion, just a walking cadaver
Should I throw me away in vials of bitter candies?
But to whom does one complain
That they were born with pink ribbon scars
And their soma itself is an itch to scratch?