In the attics and crawlspaces of my mind
There are stowaways
And quiet passengers

They've living there since I was a child
Whispering softly amongst themselves


Waiting on unforeseeable events
Puppeteering from beneath my skin
Suffocating invisible boxes

Pools of blood up to their knees
I wear this crown of hate
Feel the blood run down my face

I know all your pain

My crown weights me to the ground

The medicine keeps me calm
Descendant of sickness
Descendant of hate

Descendant of sickness
Descendant of hate