The paper says its Tuesday,
But I don’t believe it.
And my charger lays on my bed,
But I cannot reach it.

I left my soul at the bottom of the wrong bottle,
Where no treasure could be found,
Only the writhing agony of emptiness
That I ended up drinking again.

If you’d ask me,
Loneliness tastes of whisky.
Love tastes of ***** and my soul tastes like ****.
I am a rotten person, with rotten ways.
I hate myself.