Another glass of whisky, and I'm staring at the door
Asking myself questions, I've never asked before
Because now, I know, that it's okay
To talk about what's in my head
Now I know its normal
To sometimes wish I were dead
I'm writing like I'm running
Out of time, or away
Often, I'm doing both, on any given day
I've pledged to live a life of pleasure
Perhaps I'm out of touch with reality
Maybe, I'm just accepting, my own grim, mortality
I thought that I was golden
I thought the sun was out
Maybe it's just mood swings
Or a mood merry go round