one-mic:

Alcohol is sin’s spit.
Blunts the stress’s candlesticks.
Sex with strangers is the fear of tryna commit.
In dimly litted rooms, a party is a cult event.
The head spins from the substance.
The body is still tryna sustain.
All at the same time, my mind detained in trying to maintain.
But fingerprints hold my memories ingrained
to shot glasses but they all the same.
I tip the beer bottle hoping I can see through the pain.
But it don’t hurt as much when life reminds you that we’re all sanely insane.
Different crowd but really just the same people.
I use the same key to the peephole wondering why I can’t turn the keyhole.
Another night for a new day is the only thing that keeps me whole.
And who told it so, when I said it so,
my eye sprained from the spray of aerosol,
I’m trying to refresh my vision.
So I keep pouring alcohol cus it seems to clean my bad decisions.
And what’s it to it that another hit will make you feel?
And what is it another hangover to remind you that last night was real?
So that you made it the next morning seeing glory of a new day,
but find out it’s just barely the beginning of the week cus it’s a Tuesday.
But you forgive yourself and say today is going to be a Truce-Day
but the weekend comes along succumbed by weakness, of the week-ness.
Exchange the spit of alcohol and feel the natural plant between your fingertips.
Exchange the bodily fluids just to do it, another stranger turned to strange-er.

Another night of existence, who said anything about being endangered.
Another night of existence, who said anything about being endangered.

( one-mic )