You like the thought of sickness
It keeps you in your place
People tend to notice you
The pain etched on your face
Gives you a leave of absence
From joining in the life
That you are trying to hide from
There’s safety in your strife.
You’ve dug a stagnant cistern
You wallow in it’s mire
Sadly you will waste away
As people, of you, tire
You have the choice of life or death
You’re missing such a lot
Rise up from your septic tank
For He is all you’ve got.