When I woke and daylight cracked through the shades.
A stare at the ceiling told me I’ve had nothing.
I’ve got nothing but hate for myself reflecting the image of a petty affliction.
Hell’s been calling and I’ve been dying to call back.

I’ve got something to show for the years that I’ve suffered.
Veins filled with liquor and a fist that’s bruised and broken.
I’m confiding in a mind that’d opt to leave life with ease.
September’s singing, bury me deep unloving.
I’ve got nothing but hate for the days when I meant something.

I’ve had setbacks; I’ve backtracked toward the past we intertwined at.
From Brooklyn streets to the house that drained my mindset.
In a house that’s broken, I’m folding like the framing half awoken.
I’d rather be sleeping, but I know September’s Singing.

Get the fuck out of bed, there’s more to be said.
We all pretend to feel alive, but pleasure’s been dead.
I’m your disease, I’m a let down, I’m a fuck up misled.
I am the single standing child that you shake off and dread.

I left the child in your image miles down the road.
I threw away all his belongings to lighten the load.
They’ll say I’m sorry for your loss just for conversation’s sake.
I abandoned the child that tainted your name.