Unrealistic

He sings a song on mix-matched lips
And lies hang on his tongue.
One shaking hand holds a bottle, empty
Its why his throat has stung.

He voice cracks twice, no make that three,
As he fumbles for the lock.
The hands are spinning furiously,
As they race around the clock.

He moans a bit as she touches him,
The proper place, oh he likes.
She doesn't know that he's out of here,
Way past his three strikes.

He takes a sip of destiny,
its mixed with sweat, beer and blood.
Now to drunk to turn it off,
As he lungs begin flood.

He's gasping now, "Air" he croaks.
His breath is comming in short.
He can't handle all this shit,
And insanity won't hold up in court.

His head hits the pillow,
He's out like a light.
Only too sleep till Moro's noon,
and do the same thing Moro's night