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letra de grave mistake - quid & tombombgrenade

seems i’ve lost all sense of time as well as my breath and sight
the fear my death is nigh is all i smell, to quell this fright
is quite impossible. it’s got a hold upon my soul so tight
it’s like i want to… no, i got to go; though, i don’t know what’s right
in front of me; even under me, what i’m seeing is nothing because
all i see is darkness, it’s hard to breathe in; my lungs, they need
oxygen; how can this be? it seems logic has left
d-mn near preposterous, pondering past tense:
how’d i get here? where is here? never will i get a good grip here
laying flat but cannot sit, weird; seems nothing truly exists here
especially not the light of day; night or day? i can’t call it
it’s anybody’s guess, i guess; hibernation or coffin?
last time i checked it, i was next to certain i was human
so i guess the former’s out of the question; it’s turned into an
all too real living nightmare, thoughts racing; i need -n-lysis
claustrophobic, all i hope and pray is it’s sleep paralysis
massive hallucination, seemingly i can’t escape from
momentarily i’m stuck, but sooner or later i should wake up
right? why stress? relax your mind
chest seems to tighten every second, the tension is high
breath is leaving again; stale air’s all that i’m breathing in and
my heart rate’s increasing; t–th bleeding from kneading them, when
any and all attempts to inhale’s a struggle or means to an end
seems that we need to pretend…

stop! you’ve not been locked inside of a box
and buried beneath the murky earth immersed in dirt to rot, alright?
stop! you’ve not been locked inside of a box
and buried where all the worms emerge from soon to be forgot
got nothing but intrusive thoughts; suffocation, i’m losing all
the clean air that was left inside wherever i am pressurized
within; this air is thick, i sense the scent of death; awareness isn’t
everything… wish i could do anything but reminisce
i’m petrified much like the wood i feel surrounding
no chance of breaking through and even then what would amount
if nothing but the rushing down–six feet at least–of muddy ground
an almost instant death as opposed to lying, dying in this dismal mess
a trickling sweat dribbles down my brow, the sound of little wet
droplets hitting timber sends a shiver; how is this the end?
i pinch my leg, i feel it; i guess it’s really real then
never in my life would i have guessed i’d ever deal with this
concealed away; soon to be forgot, if not already
out of sight, out of mind; am i to stop pretending?
and just live in spite of time with the fact i cannot hide?
in truth there’s nothing scarier, i’m buried alive

stop! you’ve not been locked inside of a box
and buried beneath the murky earth immersed in dirt to rot, alright?
stop! you’ve not been locked inside of a box
and buried beneath secluded grounds never to be found

stop!

- quid tombombgrenade

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