I could wake up next sunday, just maybe
if i make it through these weekend nights.
Anyone could tell me about what I should do,
but maybe I wouldn't push and pull through.

It's a different story, one I couldn't write anymore.
Somber's all I am recently, wish I could be sober.
It's hard to get up in the morning and not wish
to have so much more I could do about all this.

And I've paced my elbow room a couple times,
it feels like I'm a stranger in my own company.
Been vexed by the holy ghost behind my back
about faith I don't have and a father I can't see.

Won't take you a miracle, they told me once.
Said the cigarettes and lighters would suffice.
There's also the aftertaste of saturday's vices,
you'd know how hard it is, wanting to just go.

Because everytime I've told anyone otherwise,
I'm no longer surprised to be called thankless.
Though I've settled with pennies for thoughts:
my talk's cheap, arms open, but i'm still selfish.

Rid the virtues from my system, all but patience,
since I've been waiting on all my oppurtunities
but not for the home I've settled to call my own.
There's a way, I know, that's not how I want to go.

Today, I cried when someone asked about my day
because I've been like this whole weekends long.
My thousand tiny terrors yet again take their toll.
Wait for my sunday matinee, it's the last you'll see.