Damned if I do and damned if I don't, A promise to eat; a promise I won't, yet the cycle keeps on repeating itself, each finger I force down, a sad mime for help.
Exhausted, fatigued, I compose and I stare into the void that once housed my care, I press on the bud at the back of my hand, an growing reminder; a growing demand.
But as time passes this bud fails to flower, as it resides hidden under a dark shaded bower. For beneath is no sun and no water flows, I sold my soul a long time ago
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