Madness, anger, why is it there inside my broken glass
The bottles’ empty and my hurt is still here.
Some say it would relieve the pain, but just another lie.  
The answer seems to be to let me die.
Giving up?
Not really.
Just going to sleep
Maybe this is the sleep I’ll keep.
If I awake, another bottle I’ll take.
Trying to wash my sorrow away from tomorrow
Just wishing it could be gone but knowing it won’t be so I’ll take another drink.
Some say the bottles not the way to get rid of sorrow, but if not the bottle whose knife may I borrow?
At times my life I wish to take, the bottle I wish could break.
But when I try, I cry, I ask why?
What wrong could I have done to deserve this death?
The only thing that comes to mind is being kind.
It’s o.k.
The death that’s been put forth I’ll accept.
The knife was fake, so again the bottle I‘ll take.
Dream, I will of you in my resting place.
My mind is in a clouded space.