Doctor please, I need a new hope. The more I run, the
more the track becomes a living hell paved with regrets.
I’ve been looking for some help. The smiles in the
streets they scare. The hands on my back they f**king
weight. The picks in my head they help, I believe. Shake,
shake, shake, shake. The wine, the whiskey, they became
discrete pills. The ice pick, a remedy. I’ll never find a
way to wake up. And here comes the mourning. I give up
the steel is already in. Understand, you’re the last
chance I take to die. And I don’t wanna die. Who cares
about real questions giving you the doubt you need? I’m
tired of thinking of what I could get to drop out. I’m
alone now, I’m the same ol’ trap. Longing for a sand box
smile to come back. I feel left being, on and on the same
glass, and the bottle is down.
