there are some parts of being from the dirt, that are better than others. but in the sight of making it to a better night, always seems to be spilled on a workers shit with your own name spelled across the right breast.
nothing can be expected more than the "can't stomach them or can't stand them". how many of these insults and depressing nights have to had to find the silver lining?
its a crap shoot hoping on not having a seed grow in that shit kind of life... the cheap whiskey and beer is what fuels, this self loathing about potential.
every drink is the last that will lead to bigger and better fortunes outside of the working class dreams. dreams of crossing the greatest's of oceans that can't be seen from the windows, or running lost across even greater plans where men fought for a glimpse of those oceans.
and when the last call comes everyone always sounds like they're bottoming out till they press their alcoholed blood across a mess of life... something lost or checking out.
everything always seems that proves a 20/20 version of everything till everything is lost with a disruption or complacent falsehood...
always dreaming to see more than the gears, more than the bottle. everyone has to bottom out before they see the fear they hate.
maybe another drink before these questions can be asked again...
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