The cold sweats and the achy bones, doing everything he can to make his body feel at home.
So many voices in his head, and his own was vocally dead.
Can't express his feelings cause they're nonexistent, got a bag of glass that's mighty persistent.
Watching his cares and responsibilities being mentally dismembered, he doesn't even know its the beginning of September.
Forgot the names of his daughters, he's in line for the slaughter.
His consciousness of reality, is nothing more than a mere fatality.
I've tried bringing light into his darkness, but you can't pump blood into the heartless.
In the midst of forgetting his past, his momma taught him to grip the glass.
My mother-in-law taught her son well, gave him a powdered ticket to hell.
Now he's lost and living on the streets, standing on the bridge contemplating his defeat.
Avoiding the fact that he has two babies carrying his name, he'd rather focus himself on an addiction he can't tame.
Just because he hears voices, doesn't exclude the fact that he has choices.
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