Walter Freeman

Doctor please, I need a new hope. The more I run, the

more the track becomes a living hell paved with regrets.

I’ve been looking for some help. The smiles in the

streets they scare. The hands on my back they f**king

weight. The picks in my head they help, I believe. Shake,

shake, shake, shake. The wine, the whiskey, they became

discrete pills. The ice pick, a remedy. I’ll never find a

way to wake up. And here comes the mourning. I give up

the steel is already in. Understand, you’re the last

chance I take to die. And I don’t wanna die. Who cares

about real questions giving you the doubt you need? I’m

tired of thinking of what I could get to drop out. I’m

alone now, I’m the same ol’ trap. Longing for a sand box

smile to come back. I feel left being, on and on the same

glass, and the bottle is down.