I can no longer recall the amount of time
that I have wasted,
collecting dust on my skin,
waiting for one more god damn thing
that really means nothing at all.
Too much though.
Too many nights lying on my back
In a drunken stupor clutching
an old acoustic
And cursing at caricatures I find in
Do you really know?
Do any of you have any god damn idea
what it’s like to live with this kind of mind?
People can keep calling me a genius
or an artist or a son of a bitch.
But the real truth of it
is that I just hurt more
than anyone knows.
“Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis”
just collided with the memory
of a sloppy suicide
committed by a good man
just too strung out and lonely.
You think you know what it means to hurt?
I’ve fallen asleep gettin a rib tattoo, and
I’ve flipped lumber with a fractured arm.
Never even flinched.
I’ve carried dead bodies so often
that it feels like home
to have my hand wrapped
around a casket handle.
‘Cause in the end, I don’t even know
what I am without pain.
I try to ditch it in every way, but I don’t
even know if I really want it gone.
Alcoholism and barbiturates,
slap em down for me
and I won’t stop til it’s gone.
I wanna say it’s so I can black out
and get away from all this.
But maybe I just need an excuse to be
even more miserable.
In the end, that’s what I’m really best at.