Bottles of alcohol should be labeled "False Hope",
Because they are no more than a method to cope.
You drink one down, pass it around, and get lost in it all.
But back down to Earth you'll eventually fall.

Once back to the surface, you gather a new means.
Of getting to the levels shown on the silver screens.
You get yourself high, but it all ends the same.
You're floating alone, sifting through all their blame.

"A car wreck sound lovely", you say to yourself.
As you pull out the blade and harm your health.
Your silent cries have fallen on empty ears.
It is the final product of your greatest fears.

You found a revolver in your parent's drawer.
Ready to claim the casualty of an internal war.
"They won't miss me at all" you truly believe.
But I'll still be here, alone and left to grieve.