It turns upon me, as a top might spin;
the treachery that pampers one’s soul!
Never could the good cry from within;
without the bad setting it’s own goal!
It turns upon me, as a heart might beat;
a window onto my own love’s betrayal!
No sooner do I turn around to use my feet;
my every good intent sets sail!
It turns upon me, as does a drunken man;
As if that thing I had bought, were true!
From so deep below, ! can only do what I can;
As if I were at liberty to break through!
It turns upon me, this soul sucking beast;
as it takes what I am and makes it static!
It takes the most, and leaves the least;
A basement dressed up, like an attic!
It turns upon me, to make an impression;
and steals my happiness away!
The saddest thing, is the deepest depression;
It turns upon me this very day!