Sick of It

    You think of it
   and you think of it
  till you're
 mother fucking
sick of it
And it’s sick of you
but you’d stick to it
 Thoughts can backflow, septicemia transmit.

   It haunts you
  and it haunts you
 till your
Daddy comes to fondle you
and he’s haunting you
cause what’s haunting him
 is a generational, inflicted sin.

  It’s thriving
 and it’s thriving
till it grows death’s wings for terrorizing
It creeps over you
But you’re under him
 The weight of sickness is the mass of him.

  You’re damaged
 ever damaged
till you crash your car, destruction managed.
And destruction rides
what destruction decides
 You’re a bad decision, accidentally survived

  You’re trying
 yes you’re trying
till you bleed your guts out sympathizing
But what ails you
ails what it brews
The mass of truth is sickness too.