“Tilt your head back,” they tell me.
Not to inspect the incisions of another failed attempt
But to numb a feeling of ever feeling at all
In a crowded, darkened basement
Hoping the ceiling would come crashing down

I don’t wake up every day wishing this was the life I had
But, I guess “that’ll do, Pig.”
To end up in situations like these
On another Friday night
Just to do it all again next weekend

It’s crazy how history tends to repeat itself
Whether it’s the weekend binges
or the Drake-induced late night phone calls
I, alas, hope for the better, or something rather sharper
To end this mediocrity that embodies our generation

Thus, I swallow the last drops of rum with my pride
As I should’ve never snorted anything in the first place

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