When I am alone, in the crowd, I feel the black dog come down from the shadow land. It’s shadow moves with slight of hand, doesn’t leave a foot print in the sand.
Depression grips and rips and tares, when the shadow land comes to bare, to cloak you in fear and anxiety, never leaving you to just be. The shadow land is in your head, where awful things happen and you always dread. Shadow lands, where no one is friendly and won’t hold your hands. Where deep fear is cast along the ground and hurt lays all around, where hearts never mend and dreams bend and the shadow land never ends.
The medication drops and the alcohol pops to hide you from the shadow land. No one sees, no one hears you are the one with the keys. On your knees a broken man in the shadow lands.
Rhythm of the Ink 