The Sick I Feel Is Of No End

The sick I feel is of no end,
It's as the gloom of seasons passed,
It's through the sounds of echoed screams,
Of garden's dark and dying grass.
They say the pains the catalyst,
To greater soul's destined growth,
But guilt is black as turning thoughts,
With shattered pride and broken oaths.
It's like the heart that's crystallized -
Against the glass at 4 a.m.,
When lungs inhale an acrid death -
And lungs expel a closer end.
Will bloody wrists connect us ever -
When in the naked dark we cut?
A spell to bleed into eachother -
When in the naked dark we cut.
And then with eyes - suspicion sets,
We cast a rage across the room,
To sink into the web of trend,
While tears will stream -
While shadows loom,
And yet a love exists in this,
Tainted from mistakes we've made,
Too late to take away dark bruise -
Too late to clean the crusted blade,
And driven to emotions depths,
Desperate in the saddest burn -
I'd swallow back a fist of pills -
If it could end the saddest burn.
June the month of wretched loss,
Insane it was the days to follow,
Giving up was in October
In acceptance of depressions wallow.