You can see his appearance, the brown eyes, the dark hair.
But you can't see the burden he struggles so hard to bare.
Underneath his clothes and on the surface of his skin,
He's got scars to show and about five million sins.
He'll hold the vodka bottle by the neck and pour one shot for every mistake.
One down, and four-million, nine-hundred, ninety-nine more to take.
It's a series of unfortunate events and he's drunk enough to kill himself.
He sits at in the bar alone, and stumbles into his car without anyone's help.
He'll drive down the road and pass the street sign.
"Construction Ahead: Caution, Do not drive."
He'll zip on right past it, full speed ahead.
His car could crash head-on, but it remains undead.
He wasn't trying to kill himself, but cease the pain instead.
He'd wake up to a broken back from a heavier burden,
And cry because this is one more thing he's failed at.