SIX SHEETS TO THE WIND

Six sheets to the wind
and still I'm off still running.
These hounds at my heels
call me non other than their master,
or perhaps (more accurately), - their owner.
Acting on orders at the behest of my conscience,
they nip at my heels-
they chase me towards hell
in attempt to make me pay for my sins.
But more years and more towns and more roads
under my belt,
and still I'm left
running, feeling empty: <-- this line needs work.

The hollow feeling coating the insides of my chest haven't ceased and gone away,
I still can't stop blaming myself as I inch my way to hell,
looking for some kind of penance
to set myself free from my guilt.
I still traverse the mortal Earth
saddled with immortal guilt,
a repentant sinner,
running six sheets to the wind.