My blood flows through the streets
Deluge from the wounds
Empty jars of sleeping pills
On the dresser in my room
My wet-brain neighbor cranes
His neck to see
In time, the white lights, a train
Bearing down on me
Even those containers look more like bottles than jars, I’m going to go out in a limb here and guess “Jars”, by Chevelle. They aren’t really thrash, in my opinion, but hey, maybe I’m wrong.