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The last match had burnt out on my black desk And left a hole the size of my ex-girlfriend's stretched ear It fell to the floor and failed to ignite the rough carpet Below littered with food bags and cat fur The piles of paper bags soaked in mayonnaise And ketchup wouldn't tower down like intended Room smells of onions and gym socks Like a middle schooler's hockey bag Four depression naps in the span of six hours And each time I wake up more nauseous Afraid of the world and what the nightlife will throw at me this time Maybe frozen fingertips and hyperthermia Maybe a drunk cigarette and a new hole in my face These nights boost my attitude for a slight breeze That feels like every great summer barbecue Happy father Angry mother Makes Scrib a confused boy They don't have enough to fix my rotating head and neither do I "I'll make it!" I tell myself Surely enough I will make it tomorrow's goal And the next day's goal I will make it the final year... I will make it...