Pain in the chest.

 The party has to end.

And normal life resume. 

9 to 5 is calling, 

And Monday comes too soon. 

Your chest gives you scares, 

Your heart beats abit too hard. 

But by Wednesday 

You'll be ready to party hard. 

You never grow out of 

Drinking to excess. 

No hangover can beat the feeling 

Of dancing with your friends. 

No Monday blues 

Will ever make you quit. 

Because no matter how low you feel

You fuking love it. 

Quiting is for losers. 

The music never ends. 

And just forget the pain 

You feel in your chest. 

The party never starts round here

 I'm hurting and it feels no one cares.

Saying things but no one wants 

To read hear those words. 

No one wants to stop the party. 

Even if the party is just for one. 

It will be okay, 

Just get to bed before the sun. 

I'm holding my wound, 

Showing how deep it is. 

But it seems I'm alone. 

Running away from the hurt and pain.

When you honest 

Your invites to parties disappear. 

No one wants to stop dancing, 

Or face reality or truth. 

So the scars you have are too much, 

To see, 

So they don't want to look. 

A open book. 

This party isn't helping me. 

Just One more.

 The thing about one,

Is that their is always a strong need 

For one more. 

Even if you are broke 

Or working tomorrow. 

Even if your dearest loved one

Is in hospital and dying. 

Even if your so tired you can't think. 

Even when you are fuked due to the cold

And need rest and sleep. 

One more is a beast, 

That hunts the best of intentions. 

The just one and I'm going home, 

The I've got work tomorrow. 

And I've so much to do. 

But one more is a struggle, 

That often wins over you. 

Leads you astray. 

Ruins your plans 

And fuks your week ahead. 

A beast thst doesn't care. 

Keeps dial a drink busy

And dealers active, 

With texts of

Just one more. 

Something I said?

 He who loves the most, regrets the most.

As I imagine other lifetimes

when things worked out a little better,

and I wasn't so wet behind the ears.

And your tears weren't so salty,

And I said what it was 

That you needed to hear.

And it's okay if its not perfect.

Alright to sometimes 

To colour outside the lines

And it's hard not to fight it.

But life doesn't work 

If I'm scared all the time.

Which leaves me

sad that in this universe

I couldn't make it work,

And the love I had 

Turned to hurt. 

Like a rope tied to tight, 

A dim light. 

Overthinking was it something I said? 

Old songs and unlicked bags

 Put the bag away,

To lick some other day. 

The fleeting high. 

The short time I have 

That I can do and get 

The every growing list 

Ticked off 

Slowly, 

But at lest one task. 

Sleep won't come easy. 

It might not come at all. 

And work is a growing pressure. 

In mind wondering do they know? 

The ever running nose

As the twinkle in my eyes 

Dims, 

The skip in my step 

Slowly but surely 

Is no longer there. 

Weekends and paydays. 

Nothing else but hurt. 

Friends and family gone, 

So I try and make it work. 

But it isn't the same. 

No one to send these songs to. 

No one shared these memories 

But us. 

And you left me, 

With a weight off heart break and loss. 

Still look for you at Christmas, 

And other family affairs. 

We all lose someone at some point, 

But it never seems fair. 

And now I'm lost myself. 

Weekends and paydays. 

The sun doesn't shine as bright. 

The weekends don't last as long. 

And payday is over quick. 

Playing in the red. 

Just to feel alive. 

But the gas only last so long, 

Before the heating dies. 

The water runs cold. 

The view from my room

Well it's shit. 

So, I just keep looking

Towards weekends and paydays, 

With no one to share 

those memories and old songs with. 

What number are you?

 Depression strikes,

Everyone is a stranger.

What your normal?

What song makes you cry?

What keeps you going when times are tough?

What motivates you to stay alive?

What medictes you?

What numbs the pain?

Do not get pissed off by all the rain?

Does your nose not run?

How do you sleep at night?

Do you get your five a day?

Do you actually give a fuk about any celebrity?

Like who will give a fuk when you die?

What your favorite colour?

We are all just another number. 

Sunday dinner

 Vicks, sweaty hugs and firm handshakes.

Your jaw break dancing til it aches.

Hands in the air when the piano breaks.

There is no religion, race

Or the other things used to separate us

When we are on the dance floor,

Everyone yeeeoooos the same,

Everyone there to escape the Grey clouds,

The 9 to 5 and half hour lunch break.

Your soon to be favorite song plays,

As you dance with your squad,

Your chosen family.

A life time of memories,

As the next song comes in.

And you can't help share everything.

Not even thinking about

 how much gravy you'll need

To make it through Sunday lunch/dinner,

Because tonight you're onto a winner.