Sunday morning, head pounding,
a symphony of regrets and empty bottles.
Preacher's voice, a distant drone,
spouting salvation with a saccharine smile.
'God will save you,' he croaks.
If God is real, He's a goddamn joke.

Tell my baby I love her,
before the world spins again.
This crazy isn't a choice,
it's the air I breathe, the ground beneath my feet.
A chaotic dance, a twisted show,
for the eyes that pity and judge.

Always running from the best,
falling for the broken, the half-hearted.
They don't see the scars, the ghosts of a past life,
the constant echo of my father's rage.
He's a loaded gun, a ticking bomb,
and I'm...