With this sickening need
to crawl out off my skin,
and carve out the disease
a.k.a mortal sin.

Seven, are they who
seem to hold me under.
Until my lungs ache
nearly torn asunder.

Drowning in a sea of
High density oil.
And long last burried
6 feet down; subsoil.

Always trying to claw
Through the casket ceiling
With blooded, broken nails
And a crave for feeling.

Thrown down into oblivion,
Forced to refuge reality;
I concede and silently
Welcome mortality.