I used to feel it in my heart but now I feel it in my bones.
All my friends grew up or died and now I'm all alone,
standing next to a pile of dead canaries in a coal mine,
with a head full of deadlights, trying to get mine.
I've got no nothing in mind, I’m trying to hide from dead ends
while punctuating my penance like it’s one long run-on sentence.
My penmanship is graffed up cause I act up and never listen.
I'm equal parts Pinky, The Brain, Snake Plissken, and Jesse Pinkman.
I don’t fuck with you if you’ve gotta ask me if I fuck with you.
Catch me heating up the walk-in cooler coughing up a lung or two.
So just give me a reason and I'm going off the deep end,
maybe forever ever, or maybe just for the weekend.

Fuck knocking on death’s door, I’ma kick it down!
Fuck biting my tongue, son, I’ma spit it out!
Fuck knocking on death’s door, I’ma kick it down!
Fuck biting my tongue, son, I’ma spit it out!

There's no more Noble pursuit than throwing poop in the ceiling fan
just to show the whole world how you’re feeling, fam, but damn.
just remember that your roommates gotta clean up the mess, my man.

Hot knives in the kitchen, bong rips in the bathtub,
beers out back in the snowbank, we was getting mad drunk.
Baggies full of stems and caps, belly laughs, and all of that.

We were stranded on paranoid island, circa 2007.
My man was on a bad trip tumbling down the stairway to heaven,
burned out and barely lucid, way past "Ernest Scared Stupid."

“Step on my throat!” the words bellowed from the belly of the beast.
“Step on my throat!” he said it without a hint of comedic relief,
looked me dead in my eyes and said he’d never really know peace.

He wanted to die.

We were on the darkside of our youth, marching in some moon boots,
feeling like some straight-up goons, looking like the goof troop
on acid, Dwight Schrute with a hatchet,
Jim Halpert with halitosis and habit of knockin' em back like a catfish.
Just some blood brothers booze cruising for some broken noses,
one of us was halfway dead, neither of us could know it
at the time. Life was all about the blind drunk blackout vacant.
I went hard in the punk rock, you went hard hitting the pavement.
I remember the first time you asked me to kill ya,
it wouldn’t be the last time, in fact it became too familiar.
It was all smiles and laughs in front of most of these cats,
behind closed doors back at the pad everything was painted black.
On many nights I’d wake up to the sound of your sobs,
on many nights I’d wake up to breaking glass thinking we’re getting robbed
but instead, I’d find you tearing your room apart in the dark.
I wanted to put it all back together but didn’t know where to start.
It would have taken all the kings horses and all the kings men,
but you’d just pretend that things were fine and then that was where it would end.
A wise man once said one day we’ll look back and laugh
but you’re dead and gone, homie, I can’t even smirk when I look back.
Whenever I look at your photograph I just really wanna ask
you if you pondered what would happen before your sky turned black.
I love you homie, I swear I'm not trying to put you on blast,
but did you ask yourself what would happen before your sky turned black?