It's hell down here,
hell in blue lights
and sweaty
bodies
hotter with desperation
than an empty frying pan.

From the frying pan to the club
we burn
and die
to wake up for work
in the morn.

When I come home,
I swear
I saw my mother
in blue and green
walking away from me
pushing a cart
wrapped in garbage bags,
looking cold as hell
and her plastic eyes
were clouded with brown tears.

When
I trip over my ****
drunk
in the middle of the night
and I hear sirens,
I swear,
I see God
doling out peace
while I'm afraid
for what years I have left.

I just want people to know I exist,
to know I existed,
to know that
there's something wrong
and I'm the black tornado
spinning up garbage
and dead bodies
in my mind.

If I die,
and nothing's left,
then you'll know why,
hell is a storm
and God hands out weather reports everyday.