I’d hate for one to drink to me,
It’s just a waste of alcohol.
I’d rather one be forced to drink
To quell the pain I’ve caused their soul.

But should a glass be raised to me,
With piercing glares around the room,
I’d smile and wave most gratefully
And pray that death should grace me soon.

Though God I know to be a cheat,
He never let’s me have my way.
He taunts me with anxiety
On every single ******* day.

So raise a glass, or maybe don’t.
I fear that life is just a game.
The extroverts may have their ways
But come the time, we’ll die the same.