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 the target, always in his sights.

The first boy I loved, a brother unrealized.
A hope, a flicker in the darkness.
'This time,' I whispered, 'it'll be different.'
But the darkness clung, the shadows grew.

Now I’m fucked up, raw and exposed,
a walking contradiction,
a hurricane in a china shop.
Mama's words, a broken record in my head:
'Don't do this, don't be this.'
But I'm living her pain, her fear,
a mirror reflecting my own cracked soul.

America, a broken promise,
a stage set for heartache and despair.
I've seen it all, felt it all,
crawled through the ruins of my own life.

Leaving the door open, a beacon in the night,
for the ghosts and demons that chase my soul.
A stone-cold heart, numb to the sting of life.
The end is near, but I'm still young.
Stuck in the loop, a broken record player.

Don't want to cry, don't feel good.
Just a whispered prayer, a desperate plea:
If I can't live, can I just fucking die?

© matthewwwebster