Hey I’ve always liked Jack Daniel’s,
that old familiar burn,
the kind that kicks your throat in first
then waits for thoughts to turn.
And Mary Jane’s been with me
since I was twelve years old,
back when my head was already loud
and life was already cold.
Now I’m forty, still fucking fighting,
still acting like I’m sound,
while my brain runs laps around the room
and drags me underground.
They say don’t use it as medicine,
I know, I bloody know,
but when your head won’t shut its mouth,
you’ll use what makes it slow.
I’m not proud of the bottles,
or the smoke sat in my chest,
but two hours sleep in three long days
doesn’t leave you at your best.
Some nights it’s Jack from the bottle,
not poured, not dressed up nice,
no glass, no mixer, no bullshit,
just fire pretending it’s ice.
A litre can disappear,
and I’ll still walk straight to bed,
which sounds like a party trick
till you know what’s in my head.
Five bottles in a week sometimes,
yeah, I know how that looks,
I’ve seen what drink can do to homes,
I’ve lived those ugly books.
I raised my alcoholic mum,
I know that road too well,
watched love wear lager on its breath
and turn a house to hell.
So don’t think I don’t see it,
don’t think I’m fucking blind,
I know the same old devil
is sat beside my mind.
That’s why I drink at stupid o’clock,
when the world has gone to sleep,
because it’s easier crying alone
than letting people see you leak.
And Mary Jane rolls quiet,
like a blanket made of smoke,
she doesn’t fix a single thing,
she just helps me not to choke.
Because the help can’t help me yet,
that’s the joke, isn’t it, mate?
The system nods and writes things down
while I sit there losing weight.
Mental health says wait for meds,
therapy says not until then,
ADHD needs slowing down,
but my heart says no again.
So I’m stuck in this waiting room
inside my own skull,
where every thought comes running in
and none of them are dull.
My brain don’t whisper politely,
it bangs pots, kicks doors,
digs up grief with filthy hands
and spreads it on the floor.
It shows me things I never asked for,
puts pictures where words should be,
then wonders why I’m sat at dawn
with Jack and weed for company.
Sleep doesn’t visit lately,
the smug little prick’s moved out,
left me counting ceiling cracks
while memories march about.
Sometimes none.
Sometimes two hours.
Sometimes I blink and it’s day,
and everyone else starts living
while I’m still trapped in yesterday.
So yeah, trust me when I tell you,
some nights I need that burn,
because silence isn’t given free,
it’s something I have to earn.
I know it’s wrong.
I know it’s messy.
I know it’s not the clever plan.
But clever doesn’t mean much
when you’re breaking as a man.
And there’s tablets in the background,
diazepam I shouldn’t touch,
little quiet bastards sitting there
promising far too much.
Just one, they say.
Just sleep a bit.
Just turn the whole thing off.
But I don’t like that kind of peace,
it feels too close to lost.
Because the noise is my torture,
but it’s mine, and that’s the twist,
it’s the reason I can write this down
instead of clenching fists.
My words don’t come from silence,
they come when my head’s on fire,
when pain starts kicking furniture
and truth crawls out the wire.
So I pour the Jack and hate myself
for needing it again,
then light the smoke and breathe it in
like it’s some fucked up friend.
Not healthy.
Not brave.
Not some sad song looking cool.
It’s a bloke at nearly five am
being honest like a fool.
It’s not rock bottom glamour,
it’s not a rebel scene,
it’s a grown man in the kitchen
trying not to split at the seams.
I can still crack jokes in daylight,
still say, “I’m fine, you?”
still carry everyone else’s shit
like it’s what I’m built to do.
But night knows the real version,
the one with shaking hands,
the one who’s tired of being strong
because nobody understands.
I don’t want pity.
Fuck pity.
It can get in the bin.
I just want the noise to calm down
without killing the thing within.
So I’ll call it what it is then,
my poison, my crutch, my shame,
a bottle of Jack for the silence
and a long drag of Mary Jane.
I know it isn’t medicine,
not really, not deep down,
but when the proper help can’t reach me,
I use what’s lying around.
And maybe that sounds ugly,
good, it’s supposed to sting,
because not every survival story
comes with some shiny wing.
Mine comes with burnt lungs,
dry mouth, bloodshot eyes,
a half dead phone, an empty room,
and another “I’m alright”.
So here’s to the broken sleepers,
the men who don’t explain,
the ones who use the wrong things
to get through the right pain.
Because whiskey and Mary Jane
might quiet the storm for a bit,
but they don’t take the grief away,
they just sit beside it.
Still, I’m here.
Still breathing.
Still writing through the strain.
With a loud head, tired bones,
Jack Daniel’s and Mary Jane.
And maybe that’s the truth
the poison isn’t fixing me,
it’s just letting me rest.