Possessed

This black tar covers my brain, With viscosity of motor oil from a 1950's tractor, Wiping every so often but it still remains, Trauma of life may have been a factor, Continuously drips finding my crevices of weakness, Seizing every ounce of good nature it can, A vicious vacuum for precious meekness, This twisted consumption is part of some plan, Barbed wire around ribs puncturing with every breath, Wounds to never be healed duly, A hand of tar pumps my heart preventing death, Even if it's the one thing the sickness seeks truly.