I feel myself decaying.
I count the cells dying;
there goes a brain cell,
and there a lung cell,
and there a mass ****** of skin cells,
a genocide of nerves.

I sit in dirt, wearing ***** clothes.
I live in filth.
I devour sunshine
and **** apathy.

I just don't care.
I have 14 cigarettes,
an eighth of shrooms and 30 dollars of ***,
and that's only counting what's in my coat pockets.

I'm dying,
but you call it living.
I'm suffering,
but you call it the best years of my life.

Don't tell my mom where I go when I say I'm going to Liam's,
it's not that she wouldn't understand,
it's worse.
She would understand all too well.

Chug a beer,
and another,
count only the cells dying that don't regenerate,
just as the trust you find in other's won't.

Tuck me into a blanket of ****,
and kiss me goodnight.