Nathan McCool/Mists of Melancholia
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?
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