You say it makes you feel alive, but are you really living?

Stuck inside a prison of a bottle that has a label of something

older than your innocence, something

older than waking up on Christmas morning to the sweet smell of home, something

older than mama packing your lunch for school.

Now you're packing bottles.

You say it makes you feel free, but it's just tying you down further, choking you from the inside out.

Every weekend is like

stuck on a broken record

    stuck on a broken record

        stuck on a broken record

like a Bob Dylan song. But you can't quit,

you can't quit because it's becoming a part of you.

See, when you see with your eyes, it's clear, but when you see through the bottle, everything gets blurry.

Sinking further below into the bottle you can't seem to escape,

you now need to escape, but you're bound by the bottles that are

building a wall between you and your past,

building a wall between you and your future,

building a wall between you and yourself.

Since when did the innocence slip away?

Since when did your home smell less of home and more of alcohol?

Since when did

you consuming the contents of the bottle

lead to

the contents of the bottle consuming you?