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 

cigarette smoke.

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.

Even now

 “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.


2 thoughts on “Misery

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