Closed Vein

It’s my Novocain, my methadone
The opiate I can’t condone.
Its painfully false, compulsive lies
Will take me to the lowest highs.
One thing I’ve learned, all these years:
They all come true, my biggest fears.
Too fast, I’ll barely comprehend,
My will and sanity are quick to bend…

So why hope?
It’s my addictive pain.
So why hope?
It keeps a closed vein.
It’s a task I can’t condone,
But just give me my methadone.

It’s an elliptical ellipse of thought,
A train of mind, that’s all for naught.
A descending path of ascending notion,
A backwards manner of forward motion;
It’s sickeningly maleficent, and direly so,
A sort of mental tyrant, apropos.
It’s a trapdoor under my calloused feet,
Like a smiling, happy woman of the street.

So why hope?
It’s my addictive pain.
So why hope?
It keeps a closed vein.
It’s a task I can’t condone,
But just give me my methadone.

It’s my temperament heroine,
But my psychological heroin,
It’s my temporary heroine,
And my permanent heroin.

So why hope?
It’s my addictive pain.
So why hope?
It keeps a closed vein.
It’s a task I can’t condone,
But just give me my methadone.