It's not even late...

As you stare at your pigment in the reflection

You suffer from the images your adressing 

The long nights, the early mornings the depression.

Paranoid and suspicion by the actions you take

All the voices and demands telling you to make

Stuck inside with only death to decide your fate

Fantasising over comforting thoughts of suicide.

All the mindless sheep on the government's dick ride.

It's the tax that covers your freedom

But it's the tax that covers your freedom


You've sold your mind to your phone 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Talk to me

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