This weary chime,

I fight with all the time,

or should I say voices,

that helps me make my choices.

 

Not fully a conscience,

but rather a nuisance,

that prevents me to blossom,

but doesn't have me clueless.

 

In fact it makes me wiser,

but also gets me higher,

it has me crave,

crave for this desire.

 

Its like a demon is with me,

a demon that keeps me empty.

Though it helps me write,

its never all right.

 

I get this demon from my father,

it skipped my sister,

and went a bit farther,

and now living seems harder.

 

Seeing things for how they really are,

along with a mindset to go far.

Yet that always made me blue,

because i’ll never pull through.

 

Instead i worry about my trifles,

as if all of this is vital,

instead I dance with my demon,

my sesh is our next recital.

 

Step by step I feel weaker,

from inhaling all this refer.

Inside a black hole,

I'm falling deeper.

 

hand in hand,

I follow while he’s the leader.

Our steps are lifeless,

like I’m dancing with the reaper.

 

After dancing I sit and wonder if he's to blame,

looking with in myself I ask him his name.

I feel ashamed I feel his affliction,

he heard and responded,

my name is addiction.