Afraid that when I’m sober, it’s the end of it all
Born on October, that’s when I’ll see myself fall
It’ll all be over, not to answer the call
Snapshot of a noose
Guilty for the abuse
The road to only produce
White snow, sip it like juice
No, that’s the wrong way to use
Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,
I for sure won’t be caught
Try to escape the thought,
But the door is on lock
Break it down a bit
You’ll fail, don’t worry
Just rest and sit
Don’t rush this, you’re not in a hurry
Insanity is coming though
I hope you know
That once I’m around
You’ll be dead on the ground
Another poem for everyone (:
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Itarow Krähe 
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