Another day left locked up in the back of your head, but yet,
you forgot to write again.
Drinking leftover whisky and clutching at your throat, oh ****,
you forgot to write again.
Reading a book you found under your bed, you feel alive again,
so you pick up a pen.
The paper is ready and you're unable to breathe, when suddenly,
you remember,
I never knew how to write.
It happened again.
I'm dead.