In the palms of some mad love

Catharsis and a coma, symptoms of my soma

From what foul slum did this sickness spread?

Not everyone's a part of the lucky some

Eyes wide open, conscious, willing and brash

Embellished by their good biology

My truth is like a bubble

A fragile sphere floating in some nervous stasis

That popped so subtly I still remained stoic

But my symptoms came on strong

Vague and vermillion, just a walking cadaver

Should I throw me away in vials of bitter candies?

But to whom does one complain

That they were born with pink ribbon scars

And their soma itself is an itch to scratch?