It's hard waking up when you'd rather be dead, each day I'm putting
Out the fires inside my head. I'm sick and tired of being sick and
Tired, no longer aware of my desires. The memories cut like a knife
Sinking in, rotting out. I'm standing on the deck of a sinking ship
Trying to remember where everything went. We have the past packed out
In bags and slung over our backs. We drag these memories like a
Driftеr along the road. Now I know what it's like to be your own worst
Enеmy. This has happened all before, and it'll happen once again, with
Each new day spent
Praying for the end