There is a pit in my stomach
That could swallow the world.
My vision blurs and distorts
And sees what it wants to see.

Past scars won't stay in the past,
They threaten my present and future.
Why won't they die
And lie buried, where they belong?

My mind plays tricks on me,
Making me believe truths that are not so.
Demons and devils, they come
And grab me by the ankles, dragging me down.

Trust is the hardest word to put into practice.
The doubts, they cloud my clearer thoughts
And thus, once more, they make me wait
Until the weight from high should fall.

Yet doubt cannot exist without belief:
A dichotomy transcendent.
And so, aware, I start to realize
I, in part, am the saboteur.