Help me, help me, the world's spinning too fast for my liking
And with each passing day I can feel my pulse spiking
Breath hitching, afraid to move
Stomach sinking, known to lose
Help me, help me, I can't help but feel my days are numbered
And with my end all the golden possibilites will be plundered
Sweat sliding, fevered to cold
Words hiding, thoughts too old
Help me, help me, it's fast approaching; will arrive any day
And with it come results far too horrid to even say
Mind crying, frantic to calm
Hope dying, given to none
