It's hard waking up when you'd rather be dead, each day I'm putting

Out the fires inside my head. I'm sick and tired of being sick and

Tired, no longer aware of my desires. The memories cut like a knife

Sinking in, rotting out. I'm standing on the deck of a sinking ship

Trying to remember where everything went. We have the past packed out

In bags and slung over our backs. We drag these memories like a

Driftеr along the road. Now I know what it's like to be your own worst

Enеmy. This has happened all before, and it'll happen once again, with

Each new day spent

Praying for the end