H@nG0v£r.

It's a pity when you wake up,
After such a good night out,
And every single whisper,
Feels like a malicious shout.

When your phone is ringing non-stop,
And you just can't shut it up,
And the texts are all the same:
'Hey hun, you k? Alrite? Whatsup?'

You scroll in your last-night sent-texts,
An unpleasant gift awaits:
You've sent some drunken texts around,
The 'awkward' they'll create...

Your eyes? They carry suitcases,
Your senses thick and dull,
There's a bloody, wicked, painful war,
On the inside of your skull.

Questions are directed,
To which you just ignore,
And you think last night you fell over,
Because you're all too sore.

Bruises on your arms and legs,
A weariness to bone,
You nurse your cup of caffeine,
With a whimper and a groan.

And yet inside your painful head,
There seems to be a gap,
A distant memory of clubs,
Echoing beats of rap.