The blame anxiety

You can cut to the bone with, all my angry obsessions,
all these chalky happy pills, and all their consequences,
am I done with sleeping? am I done with waking up?
am I through with thinking?
that I've taken to much into my apologies,
and lucid dreams, and fuc*** up thinking


I bleed inside, I fear my life, I wake and I hide,
I choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits,
and agoraphobic dreams of happiness


You can cut to the fuc*** point,
of how I'm so frustrated, as you strip away this fear,
and you sand and paint it, am I done with drinking?
am I done with waking up? am I tired of thinking?
that I've taken to much into all I want to be,
the ghost of me is far from leaving

I feel claustrophobic thinking,
that my skin is a prison in itself, you want to share my cell?