We chased tens with skunked Budweisers at a house party in Richmond, Virginia. It was the winter of bad knees in basements, of smashing bottles in the alleyways. We got to talking about the kind of Fear that festers in your sternum, reaches out, synapses firing, and it lodges underneath your knuckles. Can you feel them? Gotta ball them into fists, wondering if this is all just for nothing at all. What if this is all …?
You can make it go away for a little while with a well stocked medicine cabinet (make it go away), a new job and your ex-girlfriend’s smile. But time will always show those Percocets, they only last so long, and the Vicodin, it leaves those burning holes in the lining of your stomach wall, and all the while the ex-girlfriends, the mothers and the bartenders, the old friends you ain’t seen in years, they’re always saying the same goddamn thing. They’re saying “Nate, man, you gotta get yourself together son, you’ve got to clean your head out, straighten up, find yourself a decent life.”
(Never come down)
When I wake up most mornings still hung over, the ringing in my ears, the voice in my head saying always the same goddamn thing. It’s just, “You don’t deserve the things you have, and you’ll never get the ones you’ve wanted.” Tell me, what’s there left between me and the Fear?
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