Vertigo

I sit alone, blinded by my mistakes,
in front of me two doors, both of them open.
One of them holds real fortune, the other one fake,
but I refuse to move, too afraid to win.

The blood from my back flows deep,
but in this pain I can peacefully sleep
because I am afraid of another false chance.

I'm in a room furnished in gold
but all I can feel is the wound in my back.
For the love of money was the last thing I sold
and now I am left with emotion.

There is no comfort in pain,
there is no release from drugs.
Hurting myself is done in vain
which is the point. Enough is enough.

I can either bleed out or stand the fuck up.