I've been trying to hide, night after night at the bottom of each empty glass, but still memories of you find me.
Feeling helpless as the days drift pass like a church clock on Sunday
Slow and steady the hours tick on, each stroke reminding me of closing cells; trapping me in my own personal hell.
Believe me darling the irony has not been lost on me.
I try to drown my sorrows before they drown me, but each shot kills me slowly anyways.
And the more I think about it the more I welcome death....maybe it would end the torment.
But there is not rest for the wicked, no absolution for my sins.
