There’s a pile of empty bottles glistening from the crack underneath my door, there’s so many reasons for them that I can’t blame you anymore, these days just pass more dispossessed, but with every night, I’m just caring less, I drew into myself until there’s nothing left but hate, this isolation was once a prison, now it’s a garden that I cultivate

You can masturbate until the cows come home, you can curse your fate that you’re still alone, but in time the unbearable it just gets worse, I hope there’s bottle service in my hearse

I was talking to a girl from a town just a ways from me, both trapped in East Texas, regretting not becoming what we’d never be and I guess I could tell that I was her third choice at best, but in destitute times you take what you get, she showed up one night and we fucked on the floor, next time she calls, I’ll probably just ignore

You can raise your fist to a starlit sky, you can repeat the same patterns until you die or you can sing your whole life on the stage of god’s calling, he’ll rip out your throat as the curtains are falling

You can raise your first to a starlit sky and repeat the same patterns until you die, you can sing your life on the stage of god’s calling, but he’ll rip out your throat as the curtains are falling.