Iron Maiden - becoming what you call sick.

The cuts didn't help at all. The blades didn't seem so sharp, the wounds didn't ache that much with the touch of the wet cotton. Only the leaking of blood ending in drops like the tears I can't burst calmed me for a while. The smoke didn't distroyed my lungs and those cheap glasses didn't affect my liver. Sleeping was a useless.
Nothing reaches... not even close to your voice of damnation like tight chains smashing my bones, stoping my breathe, traping my words. Or your judgment eyes taking my clothes off and boiling my skin. The disapointment when it's clear that who was suppose to be by your side always forces you into what they think is good,and your happiness must be what their blinded vision believes. Protection that kills inside, and blackens the soul.