Catastrophe

Is it me, or is the air a little thicker than it used to be?

Is it me, do the days grow longer later on after winter?

Where's the sun when you need it, please?

Does the crunch of the leaves underfoot sound a little like the white noise, angry chatter that I read?

You're the guy who count to take a little louder till it hits that certain frequency, the one that helps me sleep.

Let me sleep, but only catch a couple hours till the switch, flip sides fresh, what to do, read the news.

And in the morning, it's the same, swipe refresh, freeze my heartbeat, fear the worst, do it anyway. Yes, Phoenix game.

I swear it's what gets me through the day.

I tell myself I want peace, but that's a world no one's ever seen.

Feeling fear is my release.

I'm addicted to catastrophe.

There's someone lurking at the back who knows what's best for you. Of course they do.

They say, "Go feel the sun upon your skin and read a book or two.

Watch the roses bloom.

" Think to myself, what a wonderful, magical, fantastical distraction, bound to harness no reaction, whilst the harshest fighting factions rip apart the very fabric of the truth.

I tell myself I want peace, but that's a world no one's ever seen. Feeling fear is my release.

I'm addicted to catastrophe. Addicted to catastrophe. Addicted to catastrophe.

Tell myself I want peace. But that's a world no one's ever seen.

Feeling fear is my release. Addicted to catastrophe.

Addicted to catastrophe.